AUGUST 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 
"When  Saint  Gaudens's  statue  of 
Lincoln  was  unveiled  in  London, 
Lloyd  George  made  an  address  which 
is  as  applicable  now  as  it  was  then. 
He  said: 

'I  doubt  whether  any  statesman 
who  ever  lived  sank  so  deeply  into 
the  hearts  of  the  people  of  many  lands 
as  Abraham  Lincoln  did.  I  am  not 
sure  that  you  in  America  realize  the 
extent  to  which  he  is  also  our  posses- 
sion and  our  pride.  His  courage,  for- 
titude, patience,  humanity,  clemency, 
his  trust  in  the  people,  his  belief  in 
democracy,  and,  I  may  add,  some  of 
the  phrases  in  which  he  gave  expres- 
sion to  those  attributes,  will  stand  out 
forever  as  beacons  to  guide  troubled 
nations  and  their  perplexed  leaders. 
Resolute  in  war,  he  was  moderate  in 
victory.  Misrepresented,  misunder- 
stood, underestimated,  he  was  patient 
to  the  last.  But  the  people  believed  in 
htm  all  the  time,  and  they  still  believe 
in  him.  In  his  life  he  was  a  great 
American.  He  is  an  American  no 
longer.  He  is  one  of  those  giant  fig- 
ures, of  whom  there  are  very  few  in 
history,  who  lose  their  nationality  in 
death.  They  are  no  longer  Greek  or 
Hebrew  or  English  or  American — 
they  belong  to  mankind.  I  wonder 
whether  I  will  be  forgiven  for  saying 
that  George  Washington  was  a  great 
American,  but  Abraham  Lincoln  be- 
longs to  the  common  people  of  every 
lind.'  " 


J 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


The  Reminiscences  of 
Augustus  Saint-Gaudens 


Volume  I. 


'&T>y^rmJpykWfir6V&tW' 


hyJ^CtM^diuyy 


THE    REMINISCENCES    OF 
AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 


L 


EDITED    AND     AMPLIFIED    BY 

HOMER  SAINT-GAUDENS 


VOLUME  ONE 


,V»+yf*f4{ 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  CENTURY  CO. 
NEW  YORK     *****    MCMXIII 


Copyright  1913,  by 
The  Century  Co. 

Published,  October,  1913 


Art 

Libra  ; 


* 


CO 


21 
•8 


SmAz 
m.i 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

UNTIRING  IN  HER  ENERGY  AND  AFFECTION 

UPON  WHOM  MY  FATHER  LEANED  IN  HOURS  OF  ANXIETY 

DEVOTED  IN  HER  EFFORT  TO  FURTHER 

WHAT  REMAINED  TO  BE  DONE  AFTER  HIS  DEATH 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 


CM1 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD,  1848-1857  ...       8 

The  Name  Legend  —  Parentage  —  Emigration  —  Many  Homes  — 
Lispenard  Street  —  Bernard  Saint-Gaudens  as  a  New  York 
Shoemaker  —  First  Memories  —  The  North  Moore  Street  School 
—  Outings  —  Staten  Island  — The  Furor  ^Esthetic  —  The  Big 
Nosed  Boy. 

II 

A  NEW  YORK  DECADE,  1857-1867 88 

American  Art  Previous  to  1848  —  The  Fork  in  the  Road  —  The 
Merit  in  Rigorous  Training  —  Apprenticed  to  Avet  —  The  First 
Appreciation  of  Country  —  New  York  in  Wartime  —  Discharged 
by  Avet  —  A  Kinder  Master  —  Hard  Work  in  the  Cooper  In- 
stitute—  The  Night  in  the  Cell  —  The  National  Academy  of 
Design  —  The  Draft  Riots  —  Lincoln's  Assassination  —  More 
Lady  Loves  —  Preparations   for  Europe. 

Ill 
THE   BEAUX  ARTS,   1867-1869 56 

The  New  York  Art  of  Saint-Gaudens'  Boyhood  —  Optimism  — 
Lupi,  the  Cameo  Cutter  —  Paris  —  French  Relatives  —  Poverty 
and  many  Lodgings  —  Modeling  at  the  Petite  Ecole  — "  The 
Marseillaise"  in  English  —  Three  Friendships  —  Amusements 
and  Activities  —  Walking  Trips  — The  Tramp  through  the  Juras. 

IV 

THE  FIRST  STAY  IN  ITALY,  1869-1872 93 

War  Declared  on  Germany  — The  Desire  to  Enlist  —  Wartime 
in  France  — The  Journey  to  Rome  — The  Beauty  of  Rome  — 
William  Gedney  Bunce— A  Studio  with  Soarcs  —  The  Eruption 
of  Vesuvius  — Dr.  Henry  Shiff —  Roman  Fever  —  The  Gener- 
osity of  Montgomery  Gibbs  — The  Hiawatha  —  Other  Commis- 
sions—  The  Return  Home. 


CONTENTS 
v 

v  PAGE 

THE  SECOND  STAY  IN  ITALY,  1872-1875   ....    128 

New  York  Activities  —  The  Death  of  Mary  Saint-Gaudens  —  An 
Intoxicated  Frenchman  and  a  Half-Dressed  German  —  From 
Paris  to  Rome  —  On  Foot  to  Naples  —  Difficulty  with  the  Si- 
lence—  Cameos  —  Other  Misfortunes  —  The  Death  of  Rhinehart 

—  Light  Ahead  —  Paris  According  to  Bion. 

VI 

A  FOOTHOLD,  1875-1877 152 

The  Progress  of  American  Art  —  The  German  Savings  Bank 
Building  —  Running  Water  —  Chiseling  out  Henry  Ward  Beecher 

—  White  and  McKim —  Teaching  at  Dobb's  Ferry  —  Admira- 
tion for  John  La  Farge  —  The  Farragut  Obtained  —  The  Randall 

—  Anxiety  and  Stress  —  Italian  Debts  —  The  Society  of  Amer- 
ican Artists. 

VII 
WORK  FOR  LA  FARGE,  1877-1878 190 

The  French  Salon  in  a  Rut  — The  St.  Thomas  Reliefs  — The 
Protestant  in  Art  —  Details  Across  the  Ocean  —  Will  H.  Low 

—  Painting  the  Reliefs  —  Time  Presses  —  Appreciation  and  Crit- 
icism by  La  Farge  —  A  Contemporary  Opinion  —  The  King 
Tomb. 

VIII 
PARIS   ACTIVITIES,   1878-1880 213 

Paris  Activities  —  Friendship  with  Stanford  White  —  Bas-reliefs  — 
Bastien-Lepage  —  White's  Letters  —  The  Morgan  Tomb  —  The 
Randall  Monument  —  Struggles  with  the   Farragut  Monument. 

IX 
PARISIAN  AMUSEMENTS,  1878-1880 243 

White's  Activities  —  White  and  the  Bust  at  Lille  —  Down  the 
Rhone  with  White  and  McKim  —  Friendships  —  The  Society  of 
American  Artists  in  Paris  —  The  Paris  International  Exposition 

—  Life  at  the  Time. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

NEW  YORK  AND  ITS  FRIENDSHIPS,  1880-1890   .      .    263 

The  Farragut  Unveiling  —  Other  Work  in  the  Sherwood  Studio 

—  The    Randall  — The    Destruction    of    the    Morgan    Tomb  — 

—  Friends  —  Louis  Saint-Gaudens  —  Joseph  M.  Wells  — Stan- 
ford White— Thomas  Dewing  —  George  Fletcher  Bahh  —  Rich- 
ard Watson  Gilder  — Daily  Life  — Western  Trip  with  White. 

XI 
BY-ROADS,    1882-1889 306 

The  Sleight  of  Hand  — The  Sunday  Concerts  —  Cornish,  New 
Hampshire  —  The  First  Summer  —  The  Improvement  of  Home 

—  Dewing,  Brush  and  Others  — The  "Single  Tax"— A  Trip 
to  Europe. 

XII 

THE    SHAW,    1881-1897 327 

Richardson's  Respect  for  Saint-Gaudens  —  Richardson's  Person- 
ality —  The  Shaw  Commission  —  Negro  Models  —  Bohutinsky 
and  the  Negro  —  Studio  Rages  —  Technical  Difficulties  —  Con- 
centrated Work  —  A  Letter  from  Bion  —  A  Letter  to  Gilder. 

XIII 

EARLY  THIRTY-SIXTH  STREET  WORK,  1881-1892    .    348 

Commissions  out  of  Confusion  —  The  Vanderbilt  Work  —  The 
Smith  Tomb  — The  Lincoln  — The  Puritan  — The  Adams  Mon- 
ument. 

XIV 
STEVENSON    AND    OTHERS,    1881-1892 S67 

McCosh  in  the  Studio  — Meeting  with  Stevenson  —  The  Visit  to 
Manasquan  —  The  Sherman  Bust  —  Soldier  and  Author  —  Vari- 
ations in  the  Relief  —  Letters  from  Stevenson  —  Love  of  Per- 
sonality and  Literature  —  The  Washington  Medal  —  The  Diana. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

VOLUME  I  PAOB 

Augustus  Saint-Gaudens Frontispiece 

Street  in  Aspet,  France 7 

A  Bust  of  the  Father  of  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens   .      ...      14 

The  Mother  of  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens,  from  the  drawing  by 

the   son 25 

Georgian  house  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  in  which  Augustus  Saint- 
Gaudens  was  born  in   1848 86 

Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  at  his  cameo  lathe 48 

House  on  Fourth  Avenue,  near  the  corner  of  Twenty-third 
Street,  New  York,  where  Bernard  Saint-Gaudens  had  his 
shoe-store » 53 

Studies   for   a   Fountain 65 

Studies  of  drapery  and  a  composition  from  the  student  sketch- 
book of  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens 76 

Sketch  portrait  of  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens,  drawn  by  himself  .      85 

Plaster  cast  of  the  right  hand  of  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  .      .     96 

Photograph  of  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  sent  from  Rome  in  the 

sixties 105 

Silence 116 

Hiawatha 116 

Dr.   Henry   SchifF 125 

Augustus   Saint-Gaudens,  George  Dubois,  and  Ernest  Mayor. 

during  a  walking  trip  in   1871 136 

Photograph  of  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  taken  in  Rome,  1872    .    145 

Roma  and  Piace,  Photographers. 

Augusta  F.  Homer,  wife  of  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens.  at  the  time 

of  their  engagement I*5 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


Relief  caricature  of  Henry  Adams 156 

Relief  caricature  of  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens,  Stanford  White 

and  Charles  F.  McKim 156 

"  Adoration  of  the  Cross  by  Angels,"  modeled  in  high  relief  and 
placed  in  the  chancel  of  St.  Thomas's  Church,  New  York 
City.     Destroyed  by  fire,  August  8,  1905 197 

Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  in  Paris  about  1878 208 

Bastien-Lepage 217 

Three  views  of  the  Morgan  Tomb  Angels  in  process  of  con- 
struction       228 

Statue  of  Admiral  Farragut  in  Madison  Square,  New  York  City  269 

Portrait  in  bas-relief  of  the  sons  of  Prescott  Hall  Butler   .      .   280 

From  a  photograph  by  6.  C.  Cox. 

Portrait  in  bas-relief  of  a  young  lady 289 

Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  modeling  a  bas-relief  of  Mrs.  Cleveland  300 

From  a  photograph  taken  by  R.  W.  Gilder. 

New  York  Studio  in  Thirty-sixth  Street  during  a  Sunday  con- 
cert         309 

Original  barn  used  as  first  studio 320 

House  in  Cornish  the  first  summer 320 

Various  sketches  for  the  Shaw  Memorial 329 

Facsimile  of  a  manuscript  sentiment  that  Augustus  Saint-Gau- 
dens set  as  his  standard 329 

Two  early  sketches  for  the  monument  to  Robert  Gould  Shaw  .    340 

Miss  Violet  Sargent 351 

Three  sketches  of  the  Adams  Monument,  showing  the  original 

idea   of    Socrates 358 

Sketch  for  the  high  relief  of  Dr.  McCosh 369 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  modeled  in  bas-relief  in  1887,  during 

Stevenson's  illness  in  New  York 380 


PREFACE 

During  his  last  years  my  father  was  frequently  urged 
to  write  his  reminiscences ;  but  recognizing  the  difficulties 
of  the  professional  in  his  own  sphere  of  art,  he  was 
reluctant  to  appear  as  the  amateur  seeking  to  establish 
himself  among  those  who  held  rank  in  literature. 
Therefore  he  refused  to  make  any  attempt  at  a  biogra- 
phy until,  during  the  early  spring  of  1906,  while  recover- 
ing from  a  surgical  operation  in  the  Corey  Hill  Hospital 
at  Brookline,  Massachusetts,  the  dictation  of  an  account 
of  his  life  was  pressed  upon  him  as  a  means  of  passing 
the  hours. 

The  work  once  begun,  after  his  return  to  Cornish  it 
became  easy  for  him  to  continue  with  the  help  of  a 
phonograph.  He  thought  to  rewrite  the  whole  with  me 
later,  adding  and  changing  as  seemed  necessary,  for  he 
was  a  careful  man  about  his  manuscript,  giving  much 
thought  even  to  unimportant  letter- writing;  but  from 
August,  1906,  when  he  finished  his  rough  dictation,  pain 
never  left  him  until  his  death,  so  our  plan  of  revision 
came  to  naught. 

The  details  of  those  parts  of  his  text  which  form  the 
pith  of  the  book  I  have  left  almost  intact;  only  the  order 
of  thought  and  anecdote,  somewhat  tangled  for  lack  of 
revision,  I  have  shifted  back  and  forth  into  a  methodical 
orderliness. 

In  one  way  the  autobiography  offers  more  than  might 

xiii 


PREFACE 

be  expected.  Sick  as  he  was,  the  energy  of  my  father's 
thoughts  threw  off  that  pessimism  which  might  easily 
have  crept  into  his  last  days.  His  unfailing  sense  of 
humor  and  his  dislike  of  morbid  introspection  left  in  his 
writing  that  air  of  health,  wide  sympathy,  and  belief  in 
the  world  that  was  so  characteristic  of  his  life.  He  well 
understood  where  his  work  was  lacking;  he  was  wisely 
happy  where  it  was  good. 

In  other  directions,  however,  his  autobiography  fails 
to  awaken  an  interest  beyond  that  of  the  more  outward 
events  of  his  life,  since,  because  of  his  horror  of  "art 
talk,"  he  has  given  few  opinions  on  art  and  sculpture, 
which  frequently  seemed  good  or  bad  to  him  only 
though  the  presence  or  absence  of  a  peculiar  power  ex- 
ceeding the  reach  of  definition.  Often  he  would  say, 
"I  could  not  answer  that  man,  but  I  know  he  is  wrong." 
So  with  a  faith  founded  more  on  intuition  than  on  theory 
or  reason,  he  became  reluctant  to  discuss  even  answer- 
able questions. 

Accordingly  I  have  done  my  best  to  supply  what  is 
missing  concerning  his  attiude  toward  art  and  artists 
past  and  present,  as  well  as  to  illuminate  portions  of  his 
life  by  what  his  friends  have  told  me,  by  various  personal 
recollections,  and  by  letters. 

Indeed,  it  is  with  deep  gratitude  that  I  speak  of  these 
friends  who  have  courteously  assisted  me.  Two  men  in 
especial  whose  devotion  and  generosity  of  time  and  labor 
proved  their  affection  for  my  father  and  for  me  were 
Mr.  Royal  Cortissoz  and  Mr.  Witter  Bynner.  Mr. 
Cortissoz,  for  years  my  father's  intimate  friend  and 
admirer,  an  art  critic,  and  a  biographer  of  keen  insight 
and  charm,  advised  me  materially  in  the  selection  and 

xiv 


PREFACE 

arrangement  of  what  was  fitting,  in  the  elimination  of 
what  seemed  beside  the  point.  It  has  been  a  task  of 
characteristic  generosity  for  him  to  leave  the  crowded 
demands  of  his  own  work  to  give  this  manuscript  the 
benefit  of  his  penetrating  understanding.  Mr.  Bynner 
is  my  closest  friend,  a  poet,  an  editor,  a  man  to  whom  my 
father  loved  to  turn  in  those  last  days  of  his  renewed 
youth  here  in  Cornish.  Through  Mr.  Bynner's  experi- 
ence in  revising  many  books,  he  has  developed  a  clear 
understanding  of  literary  detail,  and  out  of  this  knowl- 
edge he  has  offered  both  constructive  and  affectionate 
criticism. 

I  am  under  the  deepest  obligations,  also,  to  the  many 
others  who  have  offered  their  earnest  cooperation, 
placing  at  my  disposal  such  valuable  information, 
papers,  and  anecdotes  as  were  in  their  possession. 
Without  their  help  my  task  would  have  been  seriously 
handicapped.  My  mother,  of  course,  with  her  clear 
recollection  of  the  past,  has  been  invaluable.  It  is  to  be 
lamented  that  virtually  the  entire  collection  of  the  most 
vital  letters? — those  between  my  father  and  my  mother — 
were  lost  in  the  destruction  of  the  studio  by  fire  in  1904. 
My  uncle,  Mr.  Louis  Saint-Gaudens,  probably  possessed 
a  more  intimate  understanding  than  any  one  else  of  my 
father's  outlook  on  life;  therefore  he  remained  all- 
important  in  supplying  details,  revising,  and  recalling 
the  intimate  sides  of  my  father's  attitude  toward  the 
world.  Mr.  Richard  Watson  Gilder  proved  untiring 
in  the  aid  he  rendered  both  through  his  own  definite 
memories  and  through  much  gleaned  from  letters  which 
my  father  wrote  him.  Mr.  James  Earle  Fraser,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Henry  Hering,  Miss  Frances  Grimes,  Mr. 

xv 


PREFACE 

Charles  Keck,  and  Mr.  Adolph  Weinman,  who  had  as- 
sisted my  father  from  time  to  time,  contributed,  with 
many  others,  an  undimmed  point  of  view  of  his  state  of 
mind  when  actually  at  work.  Mr.  Keck,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hering,  and  Miss  Lucy  Perkins  were  fortunate  in  hav- 
ing worked  under  him  as  pupils  in  the  Art  Students' 
League  of  New  York,  and,  therefore,  could  speak  with 
ready  knowledge  of  his  attitude  while  teaching.  Many 
others,  too,  were  able  to  illuminate  this  or  that  period  of 
my  father's  life:  Mr.  Thomas  Moore,  who  was  with 
him  when  he  first  attended  night  school  in  New  York; 
M.  Alfred  Gamier,  whose  long  and  charming  letters 
vividly  describe  his  student  days  in  Paris;  Mrs.  John 
Merryless,  who  knew  the  young  sculptor  well  during  his 
struggles  in  Rome ;  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Oliver  Emerson,  who 
saw  much  of  him  after  he  had  made  his  active  start  in 
Paris. 

Moreover,  I  should  make  my  most  grateful  acknowl- 
edgments to  those  who  have  provided  me  with  invaluable 
letters;  as  have  Mr.  Henry  Adams,  Mrs.  Stanford 
White,  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  (for  permission 
to  use  letters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson) ,  Mr.  William 
A.  Coffin,  Mr.  John  La  Farge,  Mr.  Will  H.  Low,  and 
Miss  Helen  Mears.  I  quote  largely,  too,  from  my 
father's  correspondence  with  his  niece,  Miss  Rose  S. 
Nichols.  Indeed,  to  every  one  mentioned  in  the  text  I 
express  my  sincerest  thanks  for  courteous  assistance. 
Nor  is  that  all :  many  others  have  given  me  a  word  here, 
a  paragraph  there,  that  tell  much  of  my  father's 
character  in  the  years  I  did  not  know  him.  Without  the 
generous  aid  of  such  cordial  friends,  the  outcome  would 
have  seemed  hopeless. 

xvi 


PREFACE 

Yet  when  all  is  written,  the  best  biography  of  my 
father  remains  to  be  found  in  his  art;  for  if  work  ever 
typified  the  man,  his  did.  "Strength  with  elegance," 
refinement  of  ideals,  a  single  devotedness  toward  clarify- 
ing the  sculpture  of  his  land — all  this  he  stamped  into  his 
bronze 

Homer  Saint-Gaudens. 

Cornish,  New  Hampshire. 
July  2,  1913. 


xvn 


The  Reminiscences  of 
Augustus  Saint-Gaudens 


Volume  I. 


The  reader  will  note  that  this  book  is  set 
in  two  kinds  of  type,  differentiating  the  au- 
tobiographical from  the  biographical  por- 
tions of  the  text.  This  device  was  necessary 
to  obviate  confusion  in  the  reader's  mind  as 
Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  and  Homer  Saint- 
Gaudens — his  son  and  biographer — have  both 
written  in  the  first  person. 


The  Reminiscences  of 
Augustus  Saint-Gaudens 

i 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD 

1848-1857 

The  Name  Legend — Parentage — Emigration — Many  Homes — Lis- 
penard  Street — Bernard  Saint-Gaudens  as  a  New  York  Shoemaker 
— First  Memories — The  North  Moore  Street  School — Outings — 
Staten  Island — The  Furor  iEsthetic — The  Big-nosed  Boy. 

AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS  constantly  used  to 
speak  of  his  father's  "Gascon  imagination";  and  the 
phrase  suits  a  gift  which  that  same  Bernard  Saint- 
Gaudens  may  well  be  said  to  have  handed  untarnished  to  his 
son,  Augustus.  For,  observing  always  the  larger  truth,  Au- 
gustus Saint-Gaudens  was  yet  ready  and  happy,  on  occasion, 
to  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale  with  adapted  circumstance. 
Even  in  the  opening  paragraphs  of  the  reminiscences  where 
he  tells  of  his  ancestry,  he  seems  to  have  thought  the  larger 
truth  of  a  man's  descent  to  be  of  more  importance  than  the 
exact  order  of  his  coming.  Therefore,  lest  those  who  read 
these  pages  take  amiss  such  trifling  with  what  is  usually  re- 
garded as  gospel,  I  have  tried  to  order  my  father's  text,  in  so 
far  as  I  may,  with  literal  truth.  If  here  and  there,  contrary 
to  my  purpose,  I  too  am  to  be  suspected  of  "Gascon  imagina- 
tion" I  shall  not  quarrel  with  the  heritage. 

I    begin,    after    the    fashion    of    all    good    historians,    with 
mythology,    taking    up    the    legendary    origin    of   the    Saint- 

8 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Gaudens  family.  Briefly,  it  was  settled  in  this  wise  by  Ber- 
nard Saint-Gaudens :  Gaudens,  the  architect  of  the  Roman 
Coliseum,  celebrated  the  completion  of  it  by  becoming  its  first 
Christian  martyr.  Whereupon  he  was  canonized,  and  a  town 
in  France  named  in  his  honor. 

To  this  beautiful  tradition  Bernard  clung  until  finally  he 
came  to  believe  in  it  himself.  But  as  the  old  shoemaker's  "Gas- 
con imagination"  was,  in  this  case,  even  more  than  usually 
inexact,  I  will  amend  it  with  a  popular  form  of  the  legend  by 
giving  an  adaptation  of  a  small  portion  of  Felix  Regnault's 
"Geographie  de  la  Haute-Garonne." 

"During  the  Fifth  Century,  the  Saracens  of  the  Spanish 
Pyrenees  frequently  crossed  the  mountains  to  kill  those  of 
Christian  faith  in  France.  One  day,  on  riding  over  the 
passes,  a  number  of  these  Mussulmans  met  a  young  shepherd 
who,  while  guarding  his  flock,  was  repeating  his  prayers. 
The  soldiers  scoffed  at  his  devotion,  and  insisted  that  he  re- 
nounce his  belief,  which  they  regarded  as  an  insult.  Instead 
of  obeying,  however,  the  child  declared  that  his  heart  knew 
but  a  single  fear,  the  dread  of  displeasing  God  and  of  dis- 
obeying his  mother.  At  that  a  Saracen  drew  his  scimitar 
and,  with  a  blow,  cut  off  the  head  of  the  shepherd.  But  the 
boy,  instead  of  falling  to  the  ground,  at  once  picked  up  his 
head  and  ran  with  it  towards  the  door  of  a  small  church  not 
far  away. 

"The  soldier  who  had  struck  the  blow  stood  petrified  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  leaped  upon  his  horse,  and  pursued  the 
child  so  swiftly  that  the  boy  had  no  more  than  time  to  enter 
the  church  door  and  to  close  it  before  the  Saracen  drove  his 
animal  so  violently  against  the  wood  that  the  prints  of  the  iron 
hoofs  have  ever  since  remained  marked  upon  the  panel. 

"The  child  was  called  'Gaudens,'  and,  after  his  martyriza- 
tion,  the  town  received  his  name." 

From  the  time  of  this  legend  the  name  has  been  common 
enough.     For  instance,  in  addition  to  being  identified  with  a 

4 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

bit  of  French  soil,  it  was  also  connected,  according  to  Augus- 
tus Saint-Gaudens'  statement,  with  one  of  the  murderers  of  the 
Due  de  Guise.  Alexandre  Dumas  uses  the  name  in  the  "Dame 
aux  Camelias."  Also  our  old  friend  Mme.  Alfred  Gamier, 
at  one  time  an  actress  upon  the  French  stage,  has  told  us 
that,  in  her  day,  Saint-Gaudens  was  a  pseudonym  often 
adopted  by  players.  Why  the  name  ever  attached  itself  to 
our  family  J  do  not  know.  No  other  group  of  persons  seems 
to  bear  it. 

Now  Jet  me  turn  to  somewhat  more  definite  information. 
Augustus  Saint-Gaudens*  paternal  grandfather  was  called 
Andre  Saint-Gaudens.  In  his  birthplace,  the  comfortable 
French  town  of  Aspet,  set  at  the  head  of  a  winding  road  which 
climbs  into  the  barren  Pyrenees,  Andre  took  to  himself  a  wife 
whose  maiden  name  was  Boy.  Tradition  has  it  that  she  sold 
butter  and  eggs  in  the  market-place  at  Aspet,  and  that  she 
became  a  miser,  upon  her  death  leaving  under  her  bed  the 
conventional  box  crammed  with  gold  pieces.  The  resulting 
children  were  a  single  daughter  and  four  sons. 

The  daughter  married  the  village  apothecary,  one  Labarthe. 
The  first  son,  Jean,  remained  a  shoemaker  in  his  native  town. 
Of  his  two  children,  Hector  and  Ulysses,  the  former  is  still 
alive,  a  mail-carrier  in  Aspet.  Bertrand,  the  second  son,  be- 
came first  a  shoemaker  on  a  large  scale,  and  later  a  contractor 
in  Paris.  He  had  four  children.  Francis,  the  third  son, 
though  educated  for  the  church,  remained  in  the  army  until 
he  developed  into  a  minor  politician,  living  in  a  country  house 
at  Lieusaint.  He  had  three  children:  a  boy,  Andre,  and  two 
girls,  Pauline  and  Clorinda.  Bernard,  the  fourth  son,  and 
the  youngest,  was  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens'  father. 

Augustus  Saint-Gaudens'  mother,  Mary  McGuiness,  came 
from  Bally  Mahon,  County  Longford,  Ireland.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Arthur  McGuiness,  who  worked  in  the  Dublin 
plaster-mills  and  married  a  girl  by  the  name  of  Daly.  Plas- 
ter, as  well  as  shoes,  seems  to  have  run  in  the  family.     Her 

5 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

first  children  were  George,  who  died  at  the  age  of  six,  and 
Louis,  who  lived  but  a  few  weeks. 

So  it  was  as  the  third  son  that  Augustus  was  born.  He 
was  not  destined  to  remain  long  in  Ireland,  however,  for,  when 
but  only  six  months  old,  "red-headed,  whopper- jawed,  and 
hopeful,"  as  he  often  explained,  the  famine  in  Ireland  com- 
pelled his  parents  to  emigrate  with  him  to  America,  setting 
out  from  Liverpool  in  the  sailing  ship  Desdemona. 

With  such  a  prefatory  elucidation  of  my  father's  own  ref- 
erence to  his  forebears,  fragmentary  in  the  unrevised  condition 
of  the  text,  I  take  up  his  reminiscences.     He  begins  them  thus : 

Reminiscences  are  more  likely  to  be  tiresome  than 
otherwise  to  the  readers  of  later  generations,  but  among 
the  consoling  pleasures  that  appear  over  the  horizon  as 
years  advance  is  that  of  rambling  away  about  one's 
past.  So,  if  what  I  tell  amuses  or  interests  some 
dreamy  grandchild  of  mine  to  read,  half  as  much  as  I 
believe  now  that  it  will  entertain  me  to  write,  it  will 
have  served  its  purpose. 

Like  every  one  else,  were  I  to  set  down  everything 
about  myself,  as  well  as  everything  I  know  of  others,  I 
could  a  tale  unfold  that  would  make  what  follows  appear 
like  candle-light  in  sunshine ;  but  various  considerations, 
conventional  and  otherwise,  bar  the  way  vexatiously.  If 
the  reader  hopes  to  find  herein  a  disquisition  on  art  or 
the  production  of  artists,  it  will  be  well  to  close  the  book 
at  once.  There  is  nothing  of  that  in  these  pages. 
Moreover,  I  will  not  indulge  in  any  acrimonious 
opinions,  delightful  as  it  is  to  do  so,  because  I  have  few. 
And  even  where  they  do  exist  I  should  hesitate,  since, 
for  instance,  nothing  biting  that  I  might  say  about  the 

6 


STHKKT  IN  ASPF.T,  FUANCK 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

policeman  who  put  me  in  prison  when  I  was  nineteen 
could  be  strong  enough  to  satisfy  me. 

I  was  born  March  1, 1848,  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  near  35 
Charlemount  Street.  If  that  is  not  the  house,  no  doubt 
the  record  in  the  nearest  Catholic  church  would  give  the 
number. 

My  mother's  maiden  name  was  Mary  McGuiness. 
Of  her  ancestry  I  know  nothing  except  that  her  mother 
was  married  twice,  the  second  time  to  a  veteran  of  the 
Napoleonic  wars.  The  only  member  of  my  mother's 
family  of  whom  I  ever  had  a  glimpse  was  her  brother, 
George  McGuiness,  whom  I  saw  in  Forsyth  Street.  I 
have  a  daguerreotype  of  his  delightfully  kind  and  ex- 
tremely homely  face,  a  face  like  a  benediction,  as  I  have 
heard  some  one  describe  it.  He,  of  all  men,  became  the 
owner  of  two  slaves  in  the  South;  and,  judging  from  the 
daguerreotype,  married  an  equally  homely  and  kindly- 
looking  woman.  He  was  in  some  way  connected  with 
the  navy-yard  at  Pensacola.  The  war  cut  off  all  fur- 
ther communication  with  him. 

My  father's  full  name  was  Bernard  Paul  Ernest 
Saint-Gaudens ;  "Bernard  Paul  Honeste,  if  you  please," 
he  called  it  later  in  life.  It  sounded  nicer.  He  was 
born  in  the  little  village  of  Aspet,  about  fifty  miles 
from  Toulouse,  at  the  foot  of  the  Pyrenees,  five  miles 
south  of  the  town  of  Saint-Gaudens,  in  the  arrondisse- 
ment  of  Saint-Gaudens,  in  the  department  of  the 
Haute-Garonne,  a  most  beautiful  country,  as  the  many 
searchers  for  health  at  the  baths  of  Bagneres-de- 
Luchon  must  realize.     Of  his  ancestry  I  am  as  ignorant 

9 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

as  of  my  mother's,  knowing  only  that  his  father,  a 
soldier  under  Napoleon,  died  comparatively  young  and 
suddenly  after  what  I  suspect  was  a  gorgeous  spree. 

At  a  very  early  age  my  father,  with  his  family,  left 
his  native  village,  and  went  to  the  little  town  of  Salies 
du  Salat  about  five  miles  to  the  east.  From  there  they 
moved  to  Carcassonne  where  he  learned  his  trade  of 
shoemaker  in  the  employment  of  his  elder  brother,  Ber- 
trand,  who  had  quite  a  large  establishment  of  thirty  or 
forty  workmen.  When  through  with  his  apprentice- 
ship, following  the  custom  of  the  time,  he  moved  north- 
ward from  his  native  village  as  a  journeyman  shoe- 
maker, a  member  of  the  "Compagnons  du  Tour  de 
France."  This  was  a  popular  organization  of  that  pe- 
riod, which  facilitated  the  traveling  of  workmen  from 
town  to  town,  the  members  being  pledged  to  procure 
employment  for  one  another  as  they  arrived.  They 
each  had  some  affectionate  sobriquet;  my  father's  was 
"Saint-Gaudens  la  Constance,"  of  which  he  was  very 
proud. 

Three  years  my  father  passed  in  London  and,  later, 
seven  years  in  Dublin  where  he  met  my  mother  in  the 
shoe-store  for  which  he  made  shoes  and  where  she  did 
the  binding  of  slippers. 

Father  told  me  that  an  overcrowded  passenger-list 
prevented  his  leaving  Dublin  with  my  mother,  with  me 
at  her  breast,  in  a  ship  named  Star  of  the  West  that 
burned  at  sea  during  the  trip.  But  because  he  told 
me  this  does  not  mean  that  it  was  so.  His  Gascon  im- 
agination could  give  character  or  make  beauty  when- 

10 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

ever  these  qualities  were  necessary  to  add  interest  to 
what  he  was  saying. 

I  do  know,  however,  that  they  landed  at  Boston  town, 
probably  in  September,  1848;  he  a  short,  stocky,  bullet- 
headed,  enthusiastic  young  man  of  about  thirty,  with 
dark  hair  of  reddish  tendencies  and  a  light-red  mus- 
tache; she  of  his  height,  possessed  of  the  typical,  long, 
generous,  loving  Irish  face,  with  wavy  black  hair,  a  few 
years  his  junior,  and  "the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the 
world,"  as  he  used  to  say. 

Leaving  mother  in  Boston, — where,  by  the  way,  I 
am  beginning  this  account  in  the  hospital  fifty-six  years 
afterward, — he  started  to  find  work  in  New  York.  In 
six  weeks  he  sent  for  her.  He  said  we  first  lived  in 
Duane  Street.     Of  this  I  knew  nothing. 

From  there  we  went  to  a  house  on  the  west  side  of 
Forsyth  Street,  probably  near  Houston  Street,  where 
now  is  the  bronze  foundry  in  which  the  statue  of  Peter 
Cooper  that  I  modeled  was  cast  forty-five  years  later. 
There  my  brother  Andrew  was  born  on  Hallowe'en,  in 
1850  or  1851,  and  there  I  made  the  beginnings  of  my 
conscious  life. 

Ecstatic,  dreamlike  playing,  and  the  picking  of 
flowers  in  the  twilight  among  the  graves  of  an  old  bury- 
ing-ground  just  over  the  fence  from  the  first  house  I 
have  any  vision  of,  blended  with  similar  ecstatic  en- 
joyment of  the  red  wheels  of  the  locomotive  in  some 
journey  out  of  New  York,  are  my  first  impressions, 
vaguely  discerned  in  the  gray,  filmy  cobwebs  of  the  past. 
But  soon  we  went  to  the  Bowery,  whence  delightful  re- 

11 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

miniscences  of  the  smell  of  cake  in  the  bakery  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  street,  and  of  the  stewed  peaches  of  the  Ger- 
man family  in  the  same  house,  have  followed  me  through 
life. 

From  the  Bowery  we  moved  to  41  Lispenard  Street. 
Here  father  branched  out  for  himself,  hiring  a  whole 
building,  and  subletting  it  to  one  or  two  tenants, 
among  them  a  Dr.  Martinache,  one  of  whose  daughters 
subsequently  married  Mr.  Olin  Warner,  the  sculptor. 
I  believe  Dr.  Martinache  was  a  French  political  refugee, 
and  I  have  a  recollection  of  others  coming  to  father's 
home  at  that  time,  among  them  an  enormous  man  by  the 
name  of  Cossidierre,  who  held  Falstaffian  court  in  the 
wine-shop  down-stairs. 

The  beginnings  of  my  father's  business  were  peculiar, 
since  what  interested  him  infinitely  more  than  his  store 
were  the  two  or  three  societies  to  which  he  belonged  and 
of  which  he  generally  became  "The  Grand  Panjan- 
dium."  The  principal  organization  was  the  "Union 
Fraternelle  Francaise,"  a  mutual-benefit  affair  of  which 
he  was  one  of  the  founders  and  for  many  years  the  lead- 
ing figure.  Of  course  such  work  necessitated  frequent 
meetings  of  committees  and  subcommittees  when  there 
were  not  general  ones.  As  a  result,  in  the  daytime, 
notwithstanding  mother's  gentle  pleadings,  instead  of 
preparing  work,  he  was  ever  writing  letters  about  these 
societies,  all  naturally  to  the  serious  detriment  of  his  af- 
fairs. 

This  confused  condition  of  things  he  complicated  to  a 
still  greater  extent  by  his  remarkable  theories  as  to  how 

12 


A  BUST  OF  THE  FATHER  OF  AUGUSTUS 
SAINT-GAUDENS 

This  bust  was  modeled  by  the  son  shortly  before  he 

left  home  for  his  first  trip  abroad,  at  the  time 

that  be  made  the  drawing  of  his  mother 


Copr.  DeW.O.W«rd 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

shoes  should  be  made,  which  he  propounded  and  carried 
out  with  the  greatest  insistence  in  the  face  of  the  pro- 
tests and  tortures  of  his  customers.  It  is  a  mystery  to 
me  how  any  ever  returned  to  him,  and  that  he  did  hot 
lose  them  all.  His  idea  was  that  the  toes  should  have 
plenty  of  room  to  spread  to  prevent  suffering.  To  in- 
sure this  it  was  necessary  that  the  foot  be  squeezed  about 
two  inches  behind  them.  "Naturally,  if  you  compress  the 
foot  in  this  manner,  the  toes  will  open  out  like  a  fan, 
thus,"  he  would  say,  squeezing  his  hand  and  extending 
his  fingers  to  prove  his  contention.  "It  is  mechanical, 
you  see,  and  cannot  but  be  successful  in  securing  com- 
fort, incidentally  adding  to  the  beauty  of  the  foot  by 
giving  the  long,  narrow  appearance."  Consequently, 
misfits  resulted  in  the  majority  of  cases.  It  was  rarely 
that  his  shoes  satisfied  at  first,  since  they  were  all  tight, 
and  had  to  be  made  over  two  or  three  times  after  inter- 
minable waitings.  The  result  was  that  the  stock  of  the 
store  actually  became  made  up  of  misfits.  But  father 
did  not  mind  this,  for  he  had  a  supreme  contempt  for 
shoes  manufactured  for  sale,  and  he  refused  to  indulge 
in  that  lowering  occupation!  The  only  time  that  the 
shoes  were  properly  completed  in  his  establishment  was 
during  a  six-weeks'  absence  abroad,  when  he  came  to 
see  me,  and  mother  had  charge  of  the  store.  There 
were  no  complaints  during  that  period;  but  on  his  re- 
turn the  less  prosaic  conditions  were  resumed. 

Nevertheless,  for  so  small  an  establishment,  father 
had  an  extraordinary  clientele,  embracing  the  names  of 
most  of  the  principal  families  in  New  York,  Governor 

15 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Morgan,  General  Dix,  some  of  the  Astors,  Belmonts, 
and  so  on.  Among  his  first  customers,  I  recall  dis- 
tinctly the  wife  of  General  Daniel  E.  Sickles,  who  or- 
dered a  large  number  of  white  satin  slippers  to  be  used 
at  some  functions  in  Washington.  She  seemed  very 
beautiful  to  me,  and  she  it  was  who  led  to  the  tragedy 
of  the  shooting  of  Key,  an  admirer  of  hers,  by  General 
Sickles  in  the  streets  of  Washington. 

No  doubt  those  who  came  were  attracted  by  my 
father's  picturesque  personality,  by  the  fact  that  at 
that  time  everything  French  was  the  fashion,  and  by 
the  steadiness  of  his  assurance  as  to  the  superiority  and 
beauty  of  his  productions.  His  sign,  "French  Ladies' 
Boots  and  Shoes,"  must  have  been  irresistible,  when 
taken  together  with  the  wonderfully  complex  mixture 
of  his  fierce  French  accent  and  Irish  brogue.  This 
bewildering  language  remained  just  as  bad  at  the  end 
of  fifty  years  as  when  he  first  landed.  In  the  family  he 
spoke  English  to  mother,  and  French  to  me  and  to  my 
two  younger  brothers,  Andrew  and  Louis;  we  spoke 
English  to  mother  and  French  to  him;  mother  spoke 
English  to  all  of  us. 

Moreover,  further  to  adorn  his  discourse,  Bernard  Saint- 
Gaudens  constantly  embroidered  his  remarks  with  fantastic 
proverbs  of  uncertain  and  international  origin.  "As  much 
use  as  a  mustard  plaster  on  a  wooden  leg,"  he  would  say,  or 
"Sorry  as  a  dog  at  his  father's  funeral,"  or  "As  handy  with 
his  hands  as  a  pig  with  his  tail,"  or  "A  cross  before  a  dead 
man,"  or  this,  which  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  repeated  after 
him  through  all  his  life,  "What  you  are  saying  and  nothing 
at  all  is  the  same  thing."     Also  Bernard  Saint-Gaudens  re- 

16 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

mained  steadfastly  enamored  of  Greek  mythology,  Virgil,  Rab- 
elais, and  the  plays  of  Voltaire,  and  enjoyed  the  making  of 
speeches  at  Irish  festivals  where  he  would  round  off  his  con- 
clusions with  spirited  perorations  in  the  Gaelic  tongue.  To 
support  this  excitable  state  of  mind,  especially  as  he  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  country,  he  indulged  in  the  usual  rustic's 
love  of  bright  colors,  a  fancy  which  caused  untold  annoyance 
to  his  more  soberly-dressed  city-bred  children.  Then  during 
the  Civil  War  he  became  an  abolitionist,  a  "Black  Repub- 
lican." And  finally,  to  cap  the  whole,  he  set  himself  up  as  a 
white  Freemason,  who  would  insist  on  associating  with  the 
negro  Freemasons  and  presiding  at  their  initiations.  The 
other  white  Freemasons  accordingly  blacklisted  him.  So  he 
told  them  to  go  elsewhere,  and,  in  the  future,  never  attended 
any  but  negro  lodge  meetings,  though  he  always  explained  to 
his  children  that  Freemasonry  was  a  sublime  and  impressive 
order. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  interesting  succession  of  paradoxes  that 
induced  Horace  Greeley,  in  addition  to  those  other  customers 
already  named,  to  become  a  steady  purchaser  at  Bernard 
Saint-Gaudens*  store,  for  Greeley  must  have  delighted  to 
wrangle  with  this  argumentative  shoemaker  upon  the  philoso- 
phy of  footwear.  He  alone  stuck  to  his  point  that  the  Saint- 
Gaudens  method  of  constructing  shoes  was  essentially  wrong, 
and  therefore  had  special  lasts  made  for  his  daughters  of  a 
shape  utterly  at  variance  with  those  employed  in  the  store, 
though  from  the  conventional  point  of  view  quite  as  radical 
in  still  a  different  direction. 

It  was  not  Greeley,  however,  but  yet  another  customer,  ap- 
pearing in  the  early  days,  who  became  the  most  important  of 
them  all  to  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens.  This  man,  Dr.  Cor- 
nelius Rea  Agnew,  first  noticed  my  father  drawing  pictures 
in  pen  and  ink  of  the  shoemakers  at  work,  and  instantly  added 
his  word  to  the  boy's  desire  that  his  life  be  turned  into  artistic 
channels. 

17 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

But  I  am  drawing  ahead  of  my  father's  text.     He  writes: 

My  brother  Louis  was  born  in  this  Lispenard  Street 
House,  and  that  occurrence,  together  with  the  arrival 
of  a  comet  and  a  prayer  which  puzzled  me  profoundly, 
dominates  my  memory  of  this  period.  The  prayer  was 
the  "Hail  Mary,  full  of  grace;  the  Lord  is  with  thee; 
blessed  art  thou  amongst  women" ;  and  so  on.  Mother, 
with  her  sweet  Irish  brogue,  pronounced  "grace," 
"grease."  That  Mary  should  be  full  of  "grease"  was 
very  strange.  "Amongst  women"  was  either  "a  monk 
swimming,"  as  I  imagined  a  cowled  monk,  or  "  a 
monkey  swimming"  across  a  dark  river.  Which  of  the 
two  latter  possibilities  was  correct  perplexed  me,  as  I 
knelt  at  her  knee  in  the  dimly  lighted  room.  The 
comet,  which  I  must  be  forgiven  for  returning  to,  trav- 
ersed a  great  piece  of  the  Western  sky,  and,  at  the 
hours  when  I  saw  it,  was  low  down  on  the  horizon. 
Its  head  touched  the  houses  on  the  south  side  of  the 
street,  its  tail  brushed  those  on  the  north  side,  the  spire 
of  St.  John's  Church  standing  in  relief  against  it. 
None  of  the  comets  I  have  since  seen  can  begin  to  com- 
pare with  this  extraordinary  spectacle.  Donates,  I  be- 
lieve, was  its  name. 

My  recollections  here  still  farther  enlarge  and  spread 
out  from  the  graveyard  and  red  wheels  of  Forsyth 
Street,  and  the  bake-shop  and  stewed  peaches  of  the 
Bowery,  to  the  playing  with  the  fantastic  shadows  in 
the  moonlight  on  the  sidewalks,  intermixed  with  the 
knocking  off  of  men's  hats  in  the  night  by  stretching 

18 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

strings  from  the  stoops  to  the  wagons  standing  in  the 
streets.  The  trick  was  not  meant  for  policemen,  how- 
ever, but  for  beings  much  humbler,  and  the  terror  and 
flight  to  our  various  homes  or  hiding-places  on  seeing  a 
policeman  go  under  the  string,  with  the  resulting  loss  of 
head-gear  and  dignity,  any  man  who  has  been  a  boy  will 
appreciate  and  enjoy.  I  stole  much  butter  and  sugar 
also, — putting  a  layer  an  inch  thick  of  each  on  a  piece  of 
bread  the  size  of  one's  hand, — as  well  as  sweet  potatoes, 
which  we  baked  in  the  street  in  furnaces  made  of  cob- 
blestones. Another  delight  was  the  penny's  worth  of 
round  hearts  bought  at  the  little  candy-store  kept  by 
Billy  McGee's  mother  in  Church  Street.  Then  it  was 
that  the  sight  of  the  target  companies  passing  down 
Broadway  on  their  march  to  the  country  in  the  morn- 
ing, with  the  gaudy  negro  carrying  the  target  follow- 
ing, and  their  return  in  the  afternoon  with  the  battered 
target  and,  hung  on  their  warlike  breasts,  their  prizes  of 
silver  cups  and  things,  gave  visions  of  a  heaven  to  which 
I  dared  not  aspire  and  was  simply  happy  in  admiring. 
Here,  also,  comes  the  horror  of  seeing,  with  a  file  of 
other  children,  burning  horses  being  led  out  of  a  stable 
on  fire,  and  of  kissing  a  dead  man  in  a  room  over  the 
corner  grocery-store;  the  widow,  in  her  grief,  having 
gathered  us  in  from  the  street.  This  was  during  the 
period  of  the  Crimean  War,  which  we  learned  about  in 
the  news  bureaus  on  the  northeast  corner  of  Canal 
Street  and  Broadway.  At  that  time  also  my  mother's 
cousin,  John  Daly,  a  marine  on  one  of  the  United 
States  government  ships,  paid  us  a  visit.     He  read  to 

19 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

us  in  papers  brought  from  Honolulu,  and  showed  us 
great  walrus  teeth  that  had  come  from  the  Pacific. 
And  finally  I  can  see  myself  among  the  other  children 
who  attended  the  Sunday-school  of  St.  Patrick's  Cathe- 
dral in  Elizabeth  Street,  and  I  can  recall  the  terrible 
gloom  of  the  recital  of  some  prayer  ending  with  the 
words,  "through  my  fault,  through  my  fault,  through 
my  most  grievous  fault,"  all  the  children  bending  for- 
ward in  unison  and  striking  their  breasts  as  they  ut- 
tered these  dismal  words.  What  the  fault  could  have 
been  caused  deep  perplexity  in  my  innocent  mind. 

Following  this  period,  a  dreamlike  recollection  of  a  few 
school-days  in  Chrystie  Street,  near  Forsyth,  is  over- 
powered by  the  horror  of  being  dragged  to  the  North 
Moore  Street  School,  when  we  went  to  live  in  Lispen- 
ard  Street.  Here  my  real  male  pugnacity  put  in  an 
appearance;  for  I  was  unusually  combative  and  morose. 
The  street  fights  began  with  the  enemies  of  West 
Broadway,  who  ran  with  Fire-Engine  Company  Num- 
ber Sixteen,  the  "Gotham,"  and  with  those  of  Greene 
Street  and  other  distant  territories,  who  ran  with  other 
engines.  Showers  of  stones,  isolated  personal  strug- 
gles, and  one  solitary  encounter  with  a  negro  boy,  stand 
out  conspicuously,  while  heroic  charges  and  counter- 
charges up  and  down  Lispenard  Street,  bold  forays 
into  the  enemy's  ground  to  defend  the  honor  of  "Lady 
Washington's  White  Ghost,"  Engine  Number  Forty, 
which  "lay"  in  Elm  Street,  dominated  life  then  as 
much  as  anything  has  since.  The  running  of  races 
around  the  block  and  the  jumping  over  the  fence  of  the 

20 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Brandreth's  Pill  building,  follow  in  my  memory.  The 
first  dog,  a  yellow  one;  the  first  sled;  lickings  galore  in 
school  and  out,  those  in  school  being  received  from 
"Pop"  Beldon,  whom  I  recollect  mainly  because  of 
the  mass  of  dandruff  on  his  shoulders,  also  appear. 
There  were  about  fifteen  of  us  bad  ones  who  were  col- 
lected every  afternoon  and  lined  against  the  wall  of 
what  was  called  the  private  classroom  for  our  daily 
punishment.  "Pop"  would  begin  at  one  end  of  the 
line  and  administer  the  rod  to  the  extended  hands  of 
the  boys,  who  would  receive  the  blows  without  other 
sound  than  perhaps  a  low  whine,  but  with  much  squeez- 
ing of  fingers  under  armpits,  so  that  by  the  time  he  had 
finished  there  were  fifteen  or  twenty  squirming  boys. 
Occasionally  a  youngster  would  withdraw  his  palm  be- 
fore the  blow  came  down,  and  then  he  would  receive  a 
double  dose. 

Here  is  the  story  of  one  of  my  typical  crimes.  The 
boy  by  my  side  in  the  classroom  whispered  to  me, 
"Say!"  As  I  turned  to  him,  his  extended  forefinger, 
which  was  meant  to  hit  my  nose,  found  itself  at  the  level 
of  my  mouth.  I  bit  it.  He  howled.  I  was  "stood 
up"  with  my  back  to  the  class  and  my  face  close  against 
the  blackboard,  immediately  behind  the  teacher  who, 
turned  toward  the  class,  could  not  see  me.  To  relieve 
the  monotony  of  the  view,  I  took  the  rubber,  covered 
my  features  with  white  chalk,  and  grinned  around  at 
the  class.  The  resulting  uproar  can  be  imagined.  I 
was  taken  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  sent  to  the  pri- 
vate classroom,  where  I  had  the  honor  of  a  solitary  and 

21 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

tremendous  caning  on  parts  of  my  body  other  than  my 
hands.  The  hatred  and  the  feeling  of  injustice  pro- 
duced in  me  by  this  event  were  as  profound  as  any  that 
have  occurred  in  later  years. 

In  fact,  my  life  at  the  North  Moore  Street  School, 
with  the  exception  of  the  playing  at  recesses,  when  I 
occasionally  indulged  in  a  fight  with  my  pet  enemy, 
Harry  Dupignac,  was  one  long  misery,  one  long  im- 
prisonment; for,  besides  the  beatings,  I  was  "kept  in," 
with  a  few  other  evil  spirits,  for  an  hour  or  so  every 
day  after  all  the  others  had  gained  the  open  air  and 
freedom.  I  recall  the  sinking  of  my  heart  as  I  saw  the 
white  clouds  floating  by  the  window  in  the  patch  of 
blue  sky,  and  the  unattainable  liberty  they  revealed  to 
me  in  that  awful  place. 

One  relief  to  the  unhappy  school  memories  of  this 
Lispenard  Street  period  comes,  however,  with  the  recol- 
lections of  the  delights  of  the  Sunday  outings,  when 
I  and  my  brother  Andrew  crossed  the  North  River  on 
the  Canal  Street  Ferry  and  walked  along  the  Jersey 
shore  to  the  Elysian  Fields.  Elysian  Fields  they  really 
seemed  to  my  mind  at  that  time,  and  they  certainly 
were,  in  comparison  with  the  awful  waste  of  smoke, 
docks,  stone  sidewalks,  cinders,  brick,  mortar,  soot, 
chimneys,  trolleys,  foul-smelling  asphalt,  and  all  the 
other  delights  of  the  advancement  of  modern  civiliza- 
tion which  now  occupy  the  place  of  those  idyllic 
groves.  The  roaming  about  under  the  trees,  and  the 
going  to  and  fro  on  the  river,  seated  with  a  line  of  other 
boys  on  the  front  of  the  boat,  our  legs  dangling  over 

22 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

the  edge,  was  untold  enjoyment.  These  were  great 
days,  for  on  Sundays  father  gave  us  each  five  cents, 
two  to  pay  the  ferry  over,  two  back,  and  one  to 
spend. 

Also,  in  the  midst  of  this  period,  after  an  attack  of 
typhoid  fever,  came  the  pleasure  of  sleeping  in  a  coun- 
try home.  This  was  on  Staten  Island,  in  a  building 
owned  by  a  friend  of  Garibaldi's,  which  Garibaldi  him- 
self had  honored  by  occupying.  At  that  time  he  was  off 
on  his  Sicilian  campaign.  Or  am  I  out  in  my  history? 
At  any  rate,  it  was  one  of  his  noble  adventures  in  South 
America  or  Italy.  In  front  of  the  house  was  a  bare 
hill.  The  going  to  that  hill  was  a  thing  looked  for- 
ward to  for  days,  and  its  climbing  one  afternoon,  to 
find  that  there  were  hills  still  farther  away,  was  my  first 
feeling  of  the  ever-mysterious  beyond. 

There  seems  to  be  no  end  to  these  recollections,  for 
at  this  time  came  the  wonderful  trials  of  skill  between 
the  volunteer  fire-engines  at  the  liberty-pole  on  the 
corner  of  West  Broadway  and  Varick  Street,  the  con- 
test being  over  which  engine  could  throw  a  stream  of 
water  the  highest,  and,  if  possible,  above  the  pole.  The 
screaming  delight  of  the  boys,  as  they  ran  out  of  the 
adjoining  school  at  three  o'clock  and  witnessed  this  con- 
test, may  be  judged.  The  broom  which  decorated 
the  triumphant  engine  remains  in  my  memory.  No 
doubt  it  was  a  survival  of  the  Dutch  traditions  of  New 
York,  founded  on  the  story  of  Admiral  Van  Tromp's 
victory  over  the  English  in  the  North  Sea,  when  he 
nailed  a  broom  to  his  masthead  in  token  of  having  swept 

23 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

the  seas  clear  of  the  enemy.  Memories  of  a  broken 
marble  statue  of  William  Pitt,  on  the  stoop  of  a  saloon 
on  the  southwest  corner  of  West  Broadway  and  near 
the  liberty-pole,  also  survive  in  connection  with  this. 

Now,  too,  the  delights  of  the  first  story,  the  reading  of 
"Robinson  Crusoe,"  entered  my  life,  together  with  the 
Hallowe'en  sports  of  ducking  for  apples  in  tubs,  or 
biting  at  those  hung  by  strings  from  the  ceiling.  Soon 
after,  Mrs.  Southworth's  "Hidden  Hand"  and  Ulrich's 
"The  Gun-Maker  of  Moscow,"  with  the  short  stories  of 
Fanny  Fern,  made  Thursday,  when  the  New  York 
Ledger  appeared  with  those  wonderful  tales,  a  day  to 
be  looked  forward  to  with  indescribable  expectations. 

During  this  period  also  come  dim  visions  of  Rachel 
playing  "Virginia"  at  Niblo's  Garden,  of  Edwin  Forrest 
playing  "Coriolanus"  in  old  Wallack's  Theater,  on  the 
corner  of  Broome  Street  and  Broadway,  of  the  great 
procession  celebrating  the  laying  of  the  Atlantic  Cable, 
and  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  now  King  Edward,  driv- 
ing down  Broadway  in  1860.  I  was  struck  with  his 
being  what  I  would  now  call  a  comely  youth,  and  by 
the  singular  sensation  of  watching  all  the  people  on  the 
streets  take  their  hats  off  to  him. 

In  addition,  of  course,  at  this  time  there  developed  the 
first  heart-beats  of  an  intense  passion  for  a  curly-headed 
angel  named  Rose.  She  must  have  been  seven,  for  I 
was  about  nine.  I  confess  to  being  at  the  same  time 
as  intensely  in  love  with  another  angel  who  lived  far- 
ther down  the  street,  the  daughter  of  a  shoemaker. 

Finally  and  naturally,  with  my  growing  self-con- 

24 


Till-;  MOTHKR  OF  AICISI'I'S  SAINT  fiAIDKN'S.  FROM  Till-".  DKAWIM!  IIV  TNI    SON 

This  wna  manY  liy  AiiKiistna  Saint  fiaml.iia  nlmrllv  ln-1'.nf  !»■  !•  It  I 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

sciousness,  my  "fureur  esthetique"  began.  First  I 
drew  upon  a  slate  in  the  North  Moore  Street  School 
a  representation  of  two  regiments  of  soldiers  lined  in 
perspective,  shooting  straight  into  one  another's  face, 
with  the  smoke  issuing  from  the  guns  in  great  clouds. 
Joyously  I  rubbed  the  chalk  over  them  in  the  confusion 
of  battle,  and  covered  all  with  oblivion.  Then  I 
scrawled  things  with  bits  of  charcoal  upon  the  walls  of 
some  white-painted  house  in  the  country,  to  the  angry 
protest  of  the  hostess.  And  at  last  I  created  a  much 
more  ambitious  painting,  on  the  fence  in  the  back  yard, 
of  a  negro  boy  with  a  hole  in  his  trousers,  through  which 
the  bare  knee  was  seen.  The  joy  derived  from  that 
knee !  He  carried  a  target  at  which  I  shot  with  a  cross- 
bow and  arrow,  thus  combining  the  delights  of  the 
chase  and  of  the  artist.  The  production  of  this  work, 
however,  resulted  in  an  appalling  attack  of  "colly  wob- 
bles," caused  by  the  use  of  saliva  instead  of  water  in  the 
mixing  of  colors. 

So  it  went,  and  such  memories  as  these  and  many  oth- 
ers pass  across  the  field  of  my  vision  like  ships  that  ap- 
pear through  a  mist  for  a  moment  and  disappear. 

What  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  has  related  here  brings  to 
my  mind  two  memories  of  my  own  younger  days,  and  to  my 
hand  a  portion  of  an  account  of  himself  as  a  child,  which  my 
father  sent  me  in  instalments  when  I  was  a  boy  of  four. 

The  first  of  these  memories  is  of  a  winter  evening  when,  after 
listening  to  certain  of  my  own  school  troubles,  he  replied  with 
an  account  of  a  few  of  his  North  Moore  Street  experiences.  In 
those  years  James  Haddon  and  Lawrence  Hutton  were  his  espe- 
cial cronies,  and  not  long  after  the  day  of  that  exceptional 

27 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

caning  of  which  he  has  written,  the  three  organized  a  deep  and 
never-to-be-renounced  plot  to  murder  the  teacher  when  they 
grew  up.  Another  of  my  father's  most  bitter  irritations  here 
arrived  in  the  person  of  a  young  aristocrat, — aristocrat  from 
my  father's  point  of  view,' — who  took  advantage  of  the  paper 
currency,  then  issued  for  even  small  change,  by  bringing  a 
number  of  such  "shin  plaster"  bills  to  class  each  morning 
and  tearing  them  up  before  his  poorer  schoolmates'  faces, 
purely  for  the  joy  he  derived  from  their  resulting  expressions. 
This  ingenious  method  of  torture  ended  in  disaster  to  the  in- 
ventor at  my  father's  hands,  since,  as  he  has  already  explained, 
he  was  an  adept  with  his  fists. 

My  second  memory  harks  back  to  one  spring  evening  when 
I,  still  a  youngster,  shot  with  an  air-gun  at  a  sorry  target 
upon  the  back  fence,  until  my  father  came  home  from  the 
studio  and  stood  watching  me. 

"Isn't  that  bull's-eye  crooked?"  he  asked,  after  a  few  pel- 
lets had  gone  astray. 

I  admitted  the  design  to  be  impromptu. 

"If  you  '11  wait,  I  '11  draw  you  another.  I  know  just  how 
to  do  it,"  he  said. 

I  agreed,  and  fetched  a  bit  of  charcoal. 

Thereupon,  until  it  became  quite  dark,  he  created  again 
just  such  a  target  as  he  has  described,  held  by  just  such  a 
negro  boy,  with  just  such  a  bare  knee.  I  recollect  the  smile 
on  his  face  as  he  worked,  while  his  silence  through  the  pro- 
ceeding caused  me  no  end  of  boy-wonder. 

Finally,  the  letter  he  sent  me  explains  itself,  a  fitting  en- 
largement to  his  reminiscences  of  that  time: 

Dear  Homer: 

I  will  tell  you  a  story  about  a  sculptor.  There  was 
once  a  little  boy  who  had  a  long  nose,  and  the  first  thing 
he  can  recollect  about  is  when  he  went  up  to  Morrisania 

28 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

in  a  shu-shu  car  with  red  wheels.  His  father  held  him 
in  his  arms  and  he  had  a  splendid  lot  of  fun.  The  trees 
were  beautiful  green,  and  the  sun  was  bright,  and  the 
train  went  Ooo  Ooo  Ooo  Ooo  Ooo. 

Well,  the  next  thing  that  the  sculptor  with  a  big  nose 
recollects  is  when  he  was  playing  in  his  Mama's  room, 
and  a  great  big  man  with  a  black  beard  came  upstairs. 
Mama  was  so  glad  that  she  went  and  put  her  arms 
around  him  and  kissed  him  and  hugged  him.  She  was 
so  glad  because  he  was  her  brother  whom  she  had  not 
seen  for  a  great  many  years.     .     .     . 

This  uncle  came  from  Pensacola.  He  was  a  sol- 
dier. He  was  a  very  good  man,  and  he  had  a  lot  of 
niggers  who  had  little  nigger  children  that  they  called 
Pickaninnies,  and  they  used  to  play  with  oranges  and 
alligators.  But  when  the  little  Pickaninnies  did  n't 
take  care,  the  alligators  swallowed  the  Pickaninnies  and 
oranges  and  all  together.  When  the  Pickaninnies 
came  in  from  the  fun  they  would  sit  down  at  the  table 
with  the  big  people,  and  were  so  quiet  and  good  that  the 
big  people  thought  the  Pickaninnies  were  big  people 
too.  So  the  little  boy  with  the  big  nose  did  as  the  little 
Pickaninnies,  and  sat  and  was  quiet  like  the  big  peo- 
ple.    .     .     . 

Well,  after  the  uncle  had  gone,  the  little  boy's  father 
moved  away.     .     .     . 

Then  sometimes  the  big-nosed  little  boy  used  to  go 
out  with  the  other  boys.  Some  had  small  noses,  some 
had  big  feet,  others  had  big  ears,  and  they  used  to  go 
by  a  bake-shop,  and  it  used  to  smell  nice  and  soft. 

29 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

There  used  to  be  a  gold  eagle  in  front  of  the  house  op- 
posite where  he  lived  that  he  liked  to  look  at  very  much. 
The  street  where  this  was  was  Broome  Street.  They 
called  it  so  because  a  broom  was  never  seen  in  it. 
When  you  come  to  New  York  I  will  show  you  Broome 
Street. 

But  the  little  boy  grew  bigger  and  bigger,  and  one 
day  he  did  what  his  mother  told  him  not  to  do.  He 
bought  a  banana  of  an  old  woman  in  the  street,  and  it 
made  him  so  sick  that  his  mother  thought  he  was  going 
to  die.  And  one  night  he  woke  up  while  he  was  sick, 
and  he  saw  his  mother  and  his  mother's  friend  kneeling 
and  praying  by  the  bed.  It  was  very  quiet,  and  in  the 
little  light  he  saw  his  good  mother  had  big  tears  in  her 
eyes.  And  all  he  recollects  of  the  sickness  after  that 
was  his  friend  Jimmy  Haddon.  He  was  very  fond  of 
Jimmy  Haddon.  His  father  was  a  gold-beater,  and 
he  used  to  have  four  or  five  men  with  big,  strong,  bare 
arms  with  big  veins  on  them,  and  they  used  to  beat 
gold  in  a  basement  until  it  was  so  thin  you  could  blow 
it  away,  and  there  was  a  sign  over  the  door,  of  an  arm 
just  like  the  men's  arms,  and  it  was  gold.  Well,  he 
recollects  Jimmy  Haddon  coming  into  the  room  and 
holding  his  mother's  hand.  But  they  would  n't  let  him 
go  near  the  bed,  as  he  might  get  sick  too.  And  then, 
the  next  thing,  Nosey  was  brought  to  the  country,  just 
as  you  are  now,  and  it  seemed  so  beautiful  and 
green.     .     .     . 

After  that  Nosey  lived  in  Lispenard  Street,  and 
there,  when  he  woke  up  one  morning,  he  found  a  little 

30 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

baby  in  a  cradle  in  the  room,  and  he  went  and  kissed 
it,  and  it  had  lots  of  dimples.  It  was  a  pretty  little 
baby,  and  they  kept  it  in  the  house,  and  he  grew  very 
fond  of  it.  Then  one  day  he  found  a  red  dog  in  the 
street  and  brought  him  home,  and  he  was  very  fond  of 
the  red  dog,  but  he  did  n't  have  him  long.  One  day  he 
was  gone,  and  then  he  had  to  play  with  something  else. 

Not  long  after  that  a  pretty  little  boy  who  lived  in 
the  next  house  back,  leaned  out  of  the  window  and  said 
to  Nosey:  "I  am  going  to  die.  Don't  you  want  my 
things,  my  top,  my  sled  and  kite?"  He  said  it  so  sweetly 
that  Nosey  recollected  all  his  life  the  pale  little  boy  with 
the  golden  hair  leaning  out  of  the  window.  Well,  he 
died,  and  Nosey  was  given  the  boy's  sled.  It  was  a 
strong,  good  sled,  and  Nosey  was  very  fond  of  it  and 
of  dogs  too.  So  he  went  and  painted  a  dog's  head  on 
the  sled  and  called  that  sled  "Mastiff."  That 's  a  fine, 
good-natured  dog's  name. 

In  fact  the  big-nosed  boy  liked  dogs  so  much  that 
when  he  grew  up  he  had  a  dog  with  long  hair,  whose 
name  was  Ariadne,  and  it  was  a  very  funny  dog.  She 
used  to  go  and  get  the  newspaper  every  morning,  and 
she  used  to  carry  the  keys  of  the  little  boy  with  the 
big  nose's  father,  and  stand  up  on  her  hind  legs,  and 
when  the  little  boy  used  to  say,  "Ready!  Aim!  Fire! 
Bang!"  she  would  fall  down  and  close  her  eyes  and  play 
she  was  shot.     Was  n't  that  funny? 

Good-by,  old  boy.  Sometimes  I  go  to  Washington 
Square  to  see  where  you  used  to  play,  and  sometimes  I 
don't. 

31 


II 

A  NEW  YORK  DECADE 

1857-1867 

American  Art  Previous  to  1848 — The  Fork  in  the  Road — The  Merit 
in  Rigorous  Training — Apprenticed  to  Avet — The  First  Apprecia- 
tion of  Country — New  York  in  Wartime — Discharged  by  Avet — 
A  Kinder  Master — Hard  Work  in  the  Cooper  Institute — The  Night 
in  the  Cell — The  National  Academy  of  Design — The  Draft  Riots 
— Lincoln's  Assassination — More  Lady  Loves — Preparations  for 
Europe. 

IN  his  autobiography,  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  continues 
to  speak  of  his  boyhood,  but,  from  the  opening  of  the 
chapter,  his  attitude  toward  his  surroundings  alters. 
His  school-days  end,  and  the  engrossing  work  of  his  life  be- 
gins with  his  apprenticeship  to  the  cameo-cutter,  Avet. 

The  impulse  which  caused  him  to  seek  such  an  occupation 
sprang  from  the  very  center  of  his  being.  Often  in  after 
years  he  would  say  that  no  one  ever  succeeded  in  art  unless 
born  with  an  uncontrollable  instinct  toward  it.  This  instinct 
in  him  must  have  been  of  the  strongest  to  survive  its  sur- 
roundings, since  his  family  lacked  artistic  leanings,  and  the 
young  Republic  to  which  he  had  been  brought  was  only  slowly 
feeling  its  way  along  paths  of  artistic  development. 

Painting  formed  the  basis  of  the  arts  of  design  yet,  from 
the  years  of  its  first  real  activity,  it  had  scarcely  fallen  to  a 
lower  ebb  than  in  1848,  when  it  had  broken  away  from  the 
ideals  and  methods  borrowed  from  English  models  by  such 
men  as  Copley  and  Stuart  in  the  Colonial  period,  and  yet  had 
not  come  to  its  own  truly  national  expression  through  the 
"Hudson  River  School"  of  landscape  artists. 

32 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

If  a  depressing  condition  of  affairs  was  characteristic  of 
painting,  the  outlook  for  sculptors  proved  still  more  thor- 
oughly unsatisfactory,  with  its  difficult  medium  and  fewer  prac- 
titioners. For  though  Copley  and  West  and  Stuart  made 
their  names  known  abroad,  no  sculptor  appeared  in  this  land 
to  parallel  their  efforts.  True,  about  1812,  William  Rush  of 
Philadelphia  turned  from  the  carving  of  ship  figure-heads  to 
the  designing  of  an  occasional  fountain  or  bust,  with  Heze- 
kiah  Augur  from  New  Haven,  Connecticut,  and  John  Frazee 
of  Railway,  New  Jersey,  following  close  on  his  heels.  Yet, 
even  when  in  1834  the  Boston  Athenaeum  boasted  of  seven 
busts  from  the  hand  of  Frazee,  there  remained  a  timidity  and 
isolation  about  the  results  that  makes  it  obvious  that  sculp- 
ture did  not  attain  a  crude  form  of  its  own  until  after  the 
latter  date.  Then,  at  last,  scarcely  fifteen  years  before  my 
father's  birth,  we  find  the  first  small  group  of  men  who  devoted 
themselves  to  their  art  as  professionals  from  the  very  outset, 
who  went  abroad  for  serious  study  and  never  turned  back 
from  sculpture  as  their  life-work.  It  was  composed  of  Hora- 
tio Greenough,  who  began  his  extraordinary  semi-nude  statue 
of  Washington  in  Rome;  Thomas  Crawford,  who  had  joined 
him  in  the  Eternal  City;  Hiram  Powers,  who  was  seeking 
funds  to  follow  them ;  Ball  Hughes,  and  H.  K.  Brown,  now  de- 
veloping their  first  earnest  efforts  in  the  United  States.  But 
these  men  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  founded  any  American 
School.  One  and  all  they  sought  Italy  as  soon  as  they  had 
means  to  get  there.  That  was  a  natural  quest.  At  home 
they  could  neither  be  taught  nor  learn  from  example.  More- 
over, materials  for  their  tasks  were  conspicuous  by  their  ab- 
sence. No  good  marble  could  be  obtained,  and  bronze  foun- 
dries did  not  exist.  Where  these  men  were  at  fault  was  not 
in  going  to  Rome  or  Florence,  but  in  lingering  there  when 
their  student  days  were  over,  and  working  after  the  fashion 
of  the  Italians  in  preference  to  meeting  the  crude  conditions 
of  their  native  land. 

33 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

With  the  few  painters  scattered  from  New  York  to  Cincin- 
nati, in  a  day  when  Boston  was  virtually  as  far  from  New 
York  as  Chicago  is  now,  with  the  sculptors  remaining  in  Rome 
on  their  aesthetic  pedestals,  and  with  the  Puritan  blue-stock- 
ings still  frowning  upon  life-classes,  the  beginnings  of  socie- 
ties to  encourage  young  men  to  work  at  painting  or  sculpture 
are  worth  recognition  only  to  show  how  small  was  their  effect. 
New  York  took  the  first  step  when,  in  1802,  it  founded  the 
Academy  of  Fine  Arts.  Three  years  later  Philadelphia  fol- 
lowed suit.  Twenty  years  then  elapsed  before  the  Boston 
Athenaeum  exhibited  a  few  casts  and  marbles  which  made  it  a 
place  to  be  marveled  at.  And  indeed  not  until  1825  did  F.  S. 
Agate,  T.  S.  Cummings,  and  S.  F.  B.  Morse  at  last  rouse  art 
circles  to  some  activity  by  organizing  the  New  York  Drawing 
Association,  a  society  which  later  developed  into  the  National 
Academy  of  Design. 

Nevertheless,  despite  such  depressing  conditions,  Saint- 
Gaudens  was  impelled  toward  sculpture  from  the  very  first, 
and,  when  the  time  came,  entered  upon  the  work  under  the 
greatest  difficulties,  profiting  by  a  beneficently  vigorous  train- 
ing which  he  constantly  discussed  in  after  life.  For  while 
now  and  again  he  would  say :  "Be  happy  while  you  are  young ; 
I  regret  I  did  not  get  more  enjoyment  when  I  had  youth  and 
health,"  he  still  more  frequently  repeated,  with  even  greater 
emphasis,  his  opinion  that  the  production  of  good  results  in 
art,  or  literature,  or  anything  else  comes  only  at  the  cost  of 
training  our  minds  and  bodies  to  perform  what  is  uncongenial. 
Some  one  compared  the  evolution  of  a  work  of  art  to  the 
pregnancy  and  pain  of  childbirth.  This  he  thought  very  true, 
and  that  the  younger  a  man  received  his  training  for  this 
production  the  better  his  work  through  life.  He  believed  that 
the  rigors  of  his  own  apprenticeship  from  thirteen  to  twenty 
were  what  made  him  accomplish  all  he  did.  Indeed,  the  de- 
tails of  that  drill  must  have  been  severe.  Once  in  Washing- 
ton, for  example,  I  heard  him  tell  Mr.  Henry  Adams  and  the 

34 


GEORGIAN  HOUSE  IN  DUBLIN,  IRELAND,  IN  WHICH  AUGUSTUS 
SAINT-GAUDENS  WAS  BORN  IN  1848 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Honorable  John  Hay  how,  as  a  boy,  he  had  cut  such  a  number 
of  lion's  head  cameos  that  when,  twenty  years  later,  he  started 
to  assist  his  brother,  Louis  Saint-Gaudens,  in  modeling  the 
lions  for  the  Boston  Public  Library,  he  found  that  his  hands 
still  worked  at  the  task  automatically. 

Here,  then,  let  us  take  up  the  reminiscences: 

About  the  time  of  these  romantic  revelations 
I  have  made  concerning  Rose  and  the  other  angel, 
I  reached  what  I  call  the  end  of  the  first  period 
in  my  progress.  For  directly  after  this,  probably 
in  May,  1860,  my  father  opened  his  shop  at  268  Fourth 
Avenue,  next  door  to  the  corner  of  Twenty-first 
Street,  and  hired  a  little  apartment  for  us  to  live 
in  above  a  grocery  store  in  Twenty-first  Street,  be- 
tween Second  and  Third  Avenues.  Thence  I  was  sent 
to  the  Twentieth  Street  School,  presided  over  by  Mr. 
David  B.  Scott,  a  writer  of  one  of  the  text-book  his- 
tories of  the  United  States.  What  little  time  I  stayed 
there  sufficed  to  show  a  marked  contrast  with  the  pre- 
vious North  Moore  Street  experience.  Here  I  was 
never  punished,  and  consequently  I  dearly  loved  my 
teacher.  I  did  not  remain  long,  however,  as  I  had 
reached  the  fork  of  the  road  in  my  life  which  led  to  the 
one  I  am  still  traveling. 

Up  to  this  time,  after  school,  my  free  hours  had 
been  occupied  in  carrying  the  shoes,  first  to  father's 
workmen  to  have  them  made,  and  later  to  the  customers 
by  whom  they  were  ordered ;  an  exciting  occupation,  as 
in  some  of  these  trips  I  had  to  pass  through  the  enemy's 
country,  frequently  at  the  cost  of  a  piece  of  shoe-last 

37 


•* 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

or  leather  findings  lost  in  the  fray.  But  now,  since  I 
was  just  thirteen,  my  father  said  to  me  one  day:  "My 
boy,  you  must  go  to  work.  What  would  you  like  to 
do?" 

"I  don't  care,"  I  replied,  "but  I  should  like  it  if  I 
could  do  something  which  would  help  me  to  be  an 
artist." 

Consequently  father  apprenticed  me  to  a  man  named 
Avet,  a  Savoyard,  dark,  with  a  mustache  which  ex- 
tended down  along  the  side  of  the  cheek  and  jaw. 
When  he  was  not  scolding  me  he  sang  continuously.  I 
believe  that  I  am  not  wrong  in  stating  that  he  was  the 
first  stone  cameo-cutter  in  America,  though  stone  seal- 
engravers  there  were  already  in  New  York,  as  well  as 
shell  cameo-engravers,  at  which  occupation  Palmer  and 
Launt  Thompson  were  adepts  in  the  early  periods  of 
their  careers.  For  it  was  the  fashion  at  that  time  for 
men  to  wear  stone  scarf-pins  with  heads  of  dogs,  horses 
and  lions,  cut  in  amethyst,  malachite  and  other  stones. 
I  was  Avet's  first  apprentice,  and  the  stones  which  I 
prepared  for  him  he  would  finish,  occasionally  allowing 
me  to  complete  one  myself.  He  was  employed  prin- 
cipally by  Messrs.  Ball,  Black  &  Company,  who  had 
their  store  on  the  corner  of  Spring  Street  and  Broad- 
way, and  now  and  then  by  Tiffany,  to  both  of  which 
shops  I  took  the  cameos  when  completed,  always  with  a 
profound  impression  of  the  extraordinary  splendor  of 
those  places. 

Avet  was  certainly  an  old-time,  hard  task-master,  so 
I  can  only  describe  my  years  with  him  as  composing  a 

38 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

miserable  slavery.  To  this  training,  nevertheless,  I 
attribute  a  habit  of  work  which,  although  it  has  been  of 
the  greatest  benefit,  has  at  the  same  time  contributed  to 
my  struggle  for  health  as  well  as  limited  my  vision  to 
what  was  immediately  in  my  surroundings,  and  made 
me  oblivious  to  what  lay  beyond  the  four  walls  of  my 
studio. 

For  a  time  Avet  hired  a  room  just  north  of  Eleventh 
Street  on  the  east  side  of  Broadway.  Later  he  moved 
down  to  the  corner  of  John  Street  and  Broadway, 
where  he  remained  for  some  little  while,  before  return- 
ing up  town  to  Bleecker  Street  and  Broadway.  I  had 
to  be  at  work  every  morning  at  seven  o'clock,  so  the 
journey  to  John  Street  from  Twenty-third  Street  was 
a  heroic  undertaking  on  foot  for  a  boy  who  disliked 
walking  as  mortally  as  all  boys  do.  Those  were  the 
days  of  "omnibuses"  and  great  four-horse  sleighs  on 
Broadway,  the  delights  of  which  could  only  be  legally 
obtained  by  paying  ten  cents.  As  I  was  never  rich 
enough  to  indulge,  I  would  have  had  to  imagine  their 
charm  from  afar  on  the  sidewalk,  had  I  obeyed  the  law. 
I  did  n't.  I  solved  the  question  of  transportation  by 
"cuttin'  behind,"  as  the  boys  called  it,  on  the  step  at  the 
back  of  these  vehicles,  which  were  the  one  means  of  pub- 
lic communication  between  down-town  and  up-town, 
up-town  then  being  limited  by  Forty-second  Street. 
The  solution  would  frequently  be  enlivened  by  a  fight 
with  some  "feller"  who  tried  to  crowd  me  off,  or  with 
one  that  I  tried  to  crowd  off,  or  by  the  switch  of  some 
cross  driver's  whip. 

39 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Avet's  was  a  singular  nature,  for,  between  his  fits  of 
rage,  he  would  take  me  to  the  country  on  shooting  ex- 
cursions. During  these  trips  my  keen  appreciation  of 
the  beauty  and  wonders  of  the  landscape  was  so  intense 
that  no  subsequent  experience  has  ever  come  up  to  it. 
I  can  only  compare  my  feelings  to  those  in  Jean 
Jacques  Rousseau's  description  of  his  similar  enjoy- 
ment in  his  walking  trip  from  Geneva  to  Paris.  The 
memory  of  the  first  lying  on  the  grass  under  the  trees 
and  the  first  looking  through  the  branches  at  the  flying 
clouds,  will  stay  by  me  if  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  ten 
Methuselahs.  It  will  even  eclipse  my  visions  of  fishing 
on  the  docks,  of  catching  eels  with  Avet  off  the  sandy 
beach  near  Fort  Hamilton,  Staten  Island,  of  learning 
to  swim  among  the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  Sixtieth  Street 
and  North  River,  and  of  the  visit  of  the  Great  Eastern 
to  New  York. 

Such  gentle  thoughts,  however,  were  the  exception 
to  the  steady  run  of  excitement  which  held  upon  these 
hunting  trips.  For  during  them  we  would  constantly 
pass  through  narrow  lanes  in  the  woods,  Avet  in  front 
of  me,  with  the  gun  thrown  over  his  shoulder.  At  such 
times,  the  two  muzzles  pointing  directly  at  me,  the  ham- 
mers cocked,  and  the  percussion  caps  seen  along  the 
edge  of  the  barrels,  did  not  contribute  to  my  enjoyment 
of  these  adventures.  Yet,  on  the  contrary,  I  can  recall 
my  devilish  glee  when,  in  jumping  down  from  the  stone 
fence  behind  him,  with  my  gun  held  upright,  and  my 
fingers  on  the  triggers,  I  accidentally  discharged  both 
barrels  within  three  feet  of  his  head,  and  sent  him  leap- 

40 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

ing  into  the  air  in  a  paroxysm  of  fright,  curses,  and 
shouts. 

Then  came  great  visions  and  great  remembrances; 
the  political  meetings ;  the  processions  before  the  Presi- 
dential election,  with  carts  bearing  rail-fences  in  honor 
of  "Honest  Abe,  the  Rail- Splitter";  in  Madison 
Square  the  assembling  of  the  cavalry  squadrons,  with 
the  horses  parked  together  and  tied  to  the  trees;  the 
camping  of  regiments  about  City  Hall;  the  barracks 
there;  the  recruiting  tent  near  the  statue  of  Washing- 
ton in  Union  Square,  where  the  green  and  the  trees 
were  still  inclosed  by  a  high  iron  fence.  At  this  time 
the  windows  of  Avet's  little  place  looked  out  from  the 
first  floor  of  the  Broadway  house  just  north  of  Eleventh 
Street.  His  lathe  was  at  one  window,  mine  at  another, 
and  from  my  window  I  saw  virtually  the  entire  con- 
tingent of  New  England  volunteers  on  their  way  to  the 
Civil  War,  a  spectacle  profoundly  impressive,  even  to 
my  youthful  imagination.  The  troops  arrived  at 
Twenty-seventh  Street  and  Fourth  Avenue,  where  the 
Grand  Central  Station  then  stood  on  the  present  site 
of  the  Madison  Square  Garden.  They  marched  down 
Broadway  to  Cortland  Street,  and  from  there  took  the 
ferry  south.  They  all  sang  "John  Brown's  Body,"  as 
they  tramped  by. 

Now  followed  the  years  of  the  war,  with  their  intense 
excitement;  the  crowds  reading  the  bulletins,  in  front 
of  Brentano's  on  the  east  side  of  Broadway,  somewhere 
near  Washington  Place;  the  mob  before  the  news- 
paper offices  down-town,  particularly  at  the  time  of  the 

41 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

first  battle  of  Bull  Run;  the  temporary  hospitals,  the 
legless  and  armless  men  from  the  battle-fields ;  the  con- 
stant extras  of  victories,  victories,  victories;  finally,  the 
delight  over  the  real  ones  by  Grant ;  a  vision  of  General 
Grant  himself  on  horseback,  with  his  slouch  hat,  during 
some  great  parade  in  New  York  City  (his  face  I  liked 
because  of  its  kindliness) ;  and  a  glimpse  of  General 
Sickles,  minus  a  leg,  reviewing  the  troops  in  front  of 
Niblo's  Garden.  Also  I  recall  distinctly  the  departure 
of  Ellsworth's  Zouaves,  and  the  news  of  his  death  by 
shooting  in  Alexandria  a  few  days  after.  But,  above 
all,  what  remains  in  my  mind  is  seeing  in  a  procession 
the  figure  of  a  tall  and  very  dark  man,  seeming  en- 
tirely out  of  proportion  in  his  height  with  the  carriage 
in  which  he  was  driven,  bowing  to  the  crowds  on  each 
side.  This  was  on  the  corner  of  Twentieth  or  Twenty- 
first  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue,  and  the  man  was  Abra- 
ham Lincoln  on  his  way  to  Washington. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  flight  of  time  that  makes  this  and 
all  the  rest  seem  much  more  heroic  and  romantic  than 
the  extraordinary  events  of  our  age.  When  our  pres- 
ent day  is  in  the  sunset  it  will  no  doubt  take  on  the 
same  romantic  glow  to  the  grandchildren  who  may  read 
this. 

I  have  spoken  of  Avet's  scoldings.  They  were 
so  wonderful  that  I  can  find  nothing  better  to  com- 
pare with  these  fits  of  anger  than  the  storms  in  Rossini's 
"William  Tell"  or  Beethoven's  "Pastoral  Symphony." 
During  the  last  years  I  was  with  him  our  lathes  ad- 
joined each  other.     We  ran  them  very  much  as  sewing- 

42 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

machines  are  run,  only  on  an  infinitely  more  delicate 
scale,  the  light  hum  of  the  wheels  pervading  the  room. 
As  he  raged,  the  rapidity  of  his  pedaling  increased  with 
oaths,  that  rose  from  a  low  "Nom  de  Dieu,  de  Nom  de 
Dieu,  de  Nom  de  Dieu,  de  Nom  de  Dieu,"  in  an  ascend- 
ing scale  as  his  paroxysm  gathered  force,  then  pass- 
ing down  and  up  again  like  thunder  in  the  distance, 
until  at  the  third  or  fourth  climax  he  would  pound  his 
fist  upon  the  table  with  a  terrible  "Nom  de  Dieu!"  and 
a  blow  so  violent  that  all  the  little  tools  lying  around  on 
our  lathes  jumped  and  fell  in  unison.  Whatever  his 
fury  was  about,  I  grew  cooler  as  he  grew  hotter,  and  I 
looked  forward  to  the  jumping  of  those  implements 
with  keen  interest,  if  not  delight.  But,  at  last,  one  day, 
on  coming  into  the  shop  in  an  exceptionally  violent 
state  of  anger,  he  suddenly  discharged  me  because  I 
had  forgotten  to  sweep  up  the  crumbs  I  had  dropped 
on  the  floor  while  lunching. 

I  took  off  my  overalls,  wrapped  them  up,  went  to 
father's  store,  and  explained  the  story  to  my  parents, 
feeling  that  the  end  of  the  world  had  arrived.  Within 
half  an  hour  Avet  appeared.  I  was  sent  on  some  er- 
rand, and  on  returning  was  told  that  he  wanted  me  back 
at  an  advance  of  five  dollars  a  week  on  my  wages.  Al- 
though I  felt  that  I  might  not  be  able  to  obtain  other 
work  of  that  sort,  and  that  three  and  a  half  years  of  my 
life  had  been  lost  together  with  my  hopes  of  an  artistic 
career,  and  in  fact  of  everything  in  life,  I  replied  that 
I  would  not  return  under  any  condition.  This  was  no 
doubt  the  most  heroic  act  of  my  existence,  if  not  the 

43 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

only  one  having  real  style.     I  recall  father's  proud 
smile  concealed  in  his  mustache  as  I  made  my  speech. 

Nevertheless  the  incident,  as  will  presently  appear, 
opened  the  second  by-road  in  my  career  which  led  to  my 
being  a  sculptor.  At  this  time  there  lived  in  New 
York  a  man  entirely  the  reverse  of  my  first  employer, 
Mr.  Jules  LeBrethon,  a  shell-cameo  cutter,  who  earned 
his  living  by  making  the  large  shell-cameo  portraits  in 
vogue  during  this  period  of  big  hoop-skirts.  He  was 
very  dark,  and  possessed  a  mass  of  bushy  black  hair 
that  stood  out  like  that  of  a  South  Sea  Islander.  He 
had  his  place  in  the  building  where  Wallack's  Theater 
stood  on  the  corner  of  Broome  Street  and  Broadway. 
As  the  greater  included  the  less,  I  had  learned  very 
easily  with  Avet  the  cutting  of  shell-cameos,  this  being 
a  far  simpler  affair.  Therefore  I  applied  to  LeBrethon 
for  employment,  though  feeling  that  I  was  lowering 
myself  by  engaging  to  cut  shell-cameos.  To  my  de- 
light, I  discovered  that  he  had  a  stone-cameo  lathe, 
which  he  could  not  use.  I  began  work  at  once,  and  the 
three  years  or  so  with  him  were  as  day  is  to  night  in 
comparison  with  my  previous  experience.  The  only 
thing  that  he  had  in  common  with  Avet  was  that  he  also 
sang  from  morning  to  night.  He,  however,  never 
scolded  or  showed  anything  but  consideration  in  my  af- 
fairs. Indeed,  because  of  this  interest,  he  even  allowed 
me  an  extra  hour  every  day,  beside  my  dinner  period,  in 
which  to  model,  and  gave  me  instruction  at  that  time. 
My  ardor  almost  doubled  the  hour  by  devoting  three- 
quarters  of  my  lunch-time  to  the  modeling. 

44 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Now  to  go  back  for  the  moment,  it  was  during  those 
opening  two  or  three  years  of  my  apprenticeship  to 
Avet  that  my  earliest  definite  aspirations  and  ambitions 
had  made  themselves  felt.  For  immediately  after  my 
first  employment  I  applied  for  admission  to  the  draw- 
ing school  of  the  Cooper  Institute.  There  every  even- 
ing, upon  my  return  from  work  at  six  o'clock  and  my 
hasty  tea  I  went.  And  there  my  artistic  education  be- 
gan. The  feeling  of  profound  gratitude  for  the  help 
which  I  have  had  from  that  school  abides  with  me  to 
this  day.  Even  at  the  time  I  realized  it  strongly,  for 
so  young  a  boy.  I  can  go  so  far  as  to  recall  the  kindly 
impression  produced  on  me  by  Abram  S.  Hewitt  as  he 
glanced  at  me  during  some  function.  Father,  at  that 
time,  was  making  shoes  for  the  Cooper  family,  and  I 
suppose  that  that  is  why  he  looked  in  my  direction. 

With  such  an  incentive  I  became  a  terrific  worker, 
toiling  every  night  until  eleven  o'clock  after  the  class 
was  over,  in  the  conviction  that  in  me  another  heaven- 
born  genius  had  been  given  to  the  world.  I  can  remem- 
ber thinking  in  public  conveyances,  that  if  the  men  stand- 
ing on  the  platform  around  me  could  realize  how  great  a 
genius  was  rubbing  elbows  with  them  in  the  quiet-look- 
ing boy  by  their  side,  they  would  be  profoundly  im- 
pressed. Indeed  I  became  so  exhausted  with  the  con- 
fining work  of  cameo-cutting  by  day  and  drawing  at 
night  that,  in  the  morning,  mother  literally  dragged  me 
out  of  bed,  pushed  me  over  to  the  washstand,  where  I 
gave  myself  a  cat's  lick  somehow  or  other,  drove  me  to 
the  seat  at  the  table,  administered  my  breakfast,  which 

45 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

consisted  of  tea  and  large  quantities  of  long  French 
loaves  of  bread  with  butter,  and  tumbled  me  down 
stairs  out  into  the  street,  where  I  awoke. 

Because  of  these  late  hours,  also,  I  had  my  first  jostle 
with  the  law  in  the  shape  of  the  Cooper  Institute  police- 
man. He  was  a  "cross  duck,"  stationed  to  keep  order 
in  a  building  where  there  was  never  any  disorder.  For 
some  trifling  reason  we  became  bitter  enemies.  One 
night  about  eleven  o'clock,  as  I  was  going  through  the 
long  corridor  with  a  German  comrade,  Gortelmeyer, 
who  with  me  had  the  fever  for  working  late,  we  passed 
by  a  room  where  a  debating  society  was  fiercely  raging 
on  the  usual  topic  of  the  negro  and  slavery.  The  meet- 
ing had  spilled  over  into  the  hall,  and  we  were  laughing 
as  we  skirted  it.  Mr.  Policeman  told  us  to  "Behave!" 
I  retorted,  "Do  so  yourself!"  whereupon  he  yelled  a 
"Clear  out!"  And  then  as  I  replied  with  "When  I 
please,"  he  escorted  me  into  a  cell  in  the  Mercer  Street 
Station,  somewhere  near  Washington  Place. 

The  horror  of  that  night  I  shall  never  forget.  To 
those  who  do  not  know  what  imprisonment  is,  I  cannot 
possibly  describe  the  form  of  misery  that  overwhelmed 
me.  To  take  the  iron  bars  in  my  hands  and  feel  that  I 
could  not  get  out,  was  awful.  Of  course  I  did  not 
sleep  a  wink,  but  all  night  long  lay  watching  men  and 
women  of  varying  degrees  of  debasement,  drunken, 
snoring,  and  cursing,  being  placed  in  the  other  cells  of 
the  row.  When  they  removed  me  in  the  morning  I 
was  covered  with  whitewash.  Then  Mr.  "Sweetness 
and  Light"  came  for  me  again,  and  took  me  to  the  Jef- 

46 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

ferson  Market  Police  Court,  traversing  Washington 
Square  in  the  clear  sunlight.  At  court  I  was  herded  in 
a  pen  with  thirty  or  forty  of  the  riffraff  of  both  sexes, 
broken-headed,  black-eyed,  and  stupefied  with  drink, 
that  had  been  centralized  there.  And  in  that  pen  they 
held  me  until  father  arrived.  Then  I  was  bound  over 
in  one  dollar  to  keep  the  peace.  I  can  remember  both 
the  judge's  holding  up  his  hand  in  a  gesture  of  depre- 
cation upon  the  policeman's  description  of  my  utter 
degeneracy,  and  the  policeman's  indignation  at  the 
judge's  leniency. 

For  that  experience  I  could  have  murdered  Mr. 
Policeman,  had  opportunity  offered,  at  any  time  dur- 
ing the  next  twenty  years.  But  my  wish  was  never 
realized,  since  about  this  time,  which  was  shortly  after 
my  beginning  with  LeBrethon,  I  went  from  the  Cooper 
Union  to  the  National  Academy  of  Design,  the  pic- 
turesque Italian  Doge's  palace  on  the  corner  of  Fourth 
Avenue  and  Twenty-third  Street.  My  father's  store 
adjoined  it,  he  having  moved  there  just  before  my  ad- 
mission. His  place  was  torn  down  to  give  room  for 
the  Lyceum  Theater,  and  that,  with  the  Academy  of 
Design,  has  in  turn  disappeared  before  the  enormous 
Metropolitan  Life  Insurance  Building. 

This  studying  in  the  Academy  of  nights  was  very 
dreamlike,  and  there,  in  the  surrounding  quiet,  broken 
only  by  the  little  shrill  whistle  of  an  ill-burning  gas- 
jet,  I  first  felt  my  god-like  indifference  and  scorn  of  all 
other  would-be  artists.  Here,  too,  came  my  apprecia- 
tion of  the  antique  and  my  earliest  attempt  to  draw 

40 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

from  the  nude  with  the  advice  of  Mr.  Huntington  and 
Mr.  Leutze,  the  latter  being  the  painter  of  the  popular 
"Washington  Crossing  the  Delaware,"  and  the  "West- 
ward the  Star  of  Empire  Takes  its  Way,"  on  the  walls 
of  the  Capitol  in  Washington. 

In  thinking  of  these  and  other  artistic  notables  of 
that  generation,  I  remember  chiefly  how  during  this 
period  when  the  Academy  of  Music  in  Fourteenth 
Street  was  in  the  heyday  of  its  popularity,  on  rare  oc- 
casions I  indulged  in  the  delights  of  listening,  from  the 
top  gallery,  to  Clara  Louise  Kellogg  and  Brignoli  in 
the,  to  me,  divine  Italian  operas  then  in  the  full  height 
of  their  glory.  Also  I  made  a  call  on  Launt  Thomp- 
son, whose  beautiful  busts  of  William  Cullen  Bryant 
and  Edwin  Booth  placed  him,  to  my  thinking,  high 
on  the  top  of  Mount  Olympus.  I  remember  only  his 
amiability  during  the  visit.  Two  other  lasting  aesthetic 
impressions  of  the  time  I  received  upon  seeing  Ward's 
"Indian  Hunter"  in  plaster  in  the  back  of  some  picture 
store  on  Broadway,  and  Gerome's  painting  of  "The 
Death  of  Caesar,"  exhibited  in  the  window  of  Goupil's, 
then  on  the  northeast  corner  of  Tenth  Street  and 
Broadway,  the  location  now  occupied  by  Wanamaker. 

While  with  LeBrethon,  too,  I  underwent  a  memo- 
rable and  weird  experience,  that  of  the  Draft  Riots. 
Leaving  my  work  because  LeBrethon,  in  some  excite- 
ment, had  told  me  to  go  home  one  afternoon  at  an  early 
hour,  I  noticed  the  strange  appearance  of  the  abso- 
lutely deserted  streets;  no  omnibuses  on  Broadway, 
which  was  always  crowded  at  that  hour,  and  not  a  soul, 

50 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

wagon,  car,  or  anything  that  seemed  alive  on  Third 
Avenue  as  I  turned  into  it.  A  moment  later  men 
with  guns,  running  in  the  distance,  gave  the  only  signs 
that  the  city  was  not  dead.  Then  I  vividly  recollect 
my  pounding  upstairs,  and  my  mother  taking  me  wildly 
into  her  arms.  She  had  been  in  a  paroxysm  of  fear  as 
to  what  had  become  of  me,  the  others  of  the  brood  al- 
ready resting  safe  at  home.  Later  on,  as  the  storm 
lessened,  it  was  strange  to  see  two  cannon  posted  in 
Twenty-first  Street  at  the  corner  of  Gramercy  Park, 
pointing  due  east  in  the  direction  of  the  rioters. 

Then  came  the  news  of  Lincoln's  assassination.  I 
recall  father  and  mother  weeping,  as  he  read  of  it  to 
us  in  the  morning  at  breakfast,  before  starting  for 
work.  Later,  after  joining  the  interminable  line  that 
formed  somewhere  down  Chatham  Street  and  led  up 
by  the  bier  at  the  head  of  the  staircase,  I  saw  Lincoln 
lying  in  state  in  the  City  Hall,  and  I  went  back  to  the 
end  of  the  line  to  look  at  him  again.  This  completed 
my  vision  of  the  big  man,  though  the  funeral,  which  I 
viewed  from  the  roof  of  the  old  Wallack's  Theater  on 
Broome  Street,  deepened  the  profound  solemnity  of 
my  impression,  as  I  noticed  every  one  uncover  while 
the  funeral  car  went  by.  Finally  the  boyish  "watching 
out"  among  the  crowds,  to  try  and  detect  anybody  who 
looked  like  the  assassin,  John  Wilkes  Booth,  who 
seemed  the  perfection  of  manly  beauty  in  his  pictures, 
closes  my  impressions  of  that  extraordinary  period. 

In  one  other  direction,  however,  was  the  steadiness 
of  my  work  with  LeBrethon  diversified.     I  had  two 

51 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

more  love  affairs,  one  with  Mary  F ,  who  worked 

in  the  button  factory  upstairs,  and  the  other  with  a 
most  scrumptious  Irish  girl  in  the  employ  of  the  house- 
keeper. The  latter  also  appeared  the  most  beautiful 
girl  in  the  world,  and  a  luscious  peach  is  as  worthy  a 
comparison  as  I  can  make  of  her  beauty,  after  all  these 
years. 

Of  Mary  F I  was  terribly  afraid.     However,  I 

took  her  to  see  "Never  Too  Late  to  Mend,"  and  that, 
with  the  two  plates  of  ice-cream  that  followed,  made  a 
big  hole  in  my  weekly  income.  I  also  cut  a  cameo,  and, 
for  sixteen  dollars,  had  a  mounting  made  for  it  by  some 
workmen  I  knew  in  Tiffany's.  Then  the  night  before 
I  sailed  for  Europe  I  called  at  her  house, — she  lived 
over  a  grocery  store;  grocery  stores  seem  to  pervade 
events  in  this  part  of  my  life, — and,  suddenly  present- 
ing her  with  the  box  containing  the  pin,  I  told  her  that 
I  was  going  away  the  next  day,  said  good-by,  shook 
hands,  and  there  was  an  end  to  that. 

This  first  trip  to  Europe,  which  was  another  turn- 
ing-point in  my  life,  came  about  when,  at  the  beginning 
of  the  year  1867,  Father  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to 
see  the  coming  Paris  Exposition.  To  my  enthusiastic 
assent  he  said,  "We  will  arrange  that,"  since  I  had,  of 
course,  been  giving  my  wages,  which  were  ample  for 
a  boy  of  that  age  at  that  time,  to  help  the  running  of 
the  family. 

Between  that  date  and  the  moment  upon  which  my 
steamer  sailed,  three  incidents  alone  hold  their  place  in 
my  memory.     The  first  of  them  concerns  one  of  the 

52 


HOUSE  ON   KOI  Kill   AVKNI'K,  NEAR  TIIK  COKSKH  <)K   IWKNTY  llllltl)  SIKI  I   I, 
NEW  YORK,  WHERE  BERNARD  SAINT  (iAlDI  AS  HAD  HIS  SIMM-  ST»UU 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

large  and  hilarious  dinners  interspersed  through  our 
lives  which,  on  this  occasion,  father  planned  in  honor 
of  my  departure.  The  second  deals  with  another  ban- 
quet furnished  by  good-hearted  LeBrethon  the  night 
before  I  left,  at  which,  as  I  picked  up  my  napkin,  I 
found  under  the  plate  one  hundred  francs  in  gold, 
"To  pay  for  a  trip  to  father's  village  in  France."  But 
most  of  all  I  recall  how,  during  those  last  nights  and 
Sunday,  I  made  a  bust  of  father  and  a  drawing  of 
mother.  The  latter,  being  perhaps  the  possession  I 
treasured  most  in  the  world,  was  destroyed  in  the  fire 
that  a  year  ago  burnt  down  my  studio. 


55 


Ill 

THE  BEAUX  ARTS 

1867-1869 

The  New  York  Art  of  Saint-Gaudens'  Boyhood — Optimism — Lupi, 
the  Cameo  Cutter — Paris — French  Relatives — Poverty  and  many 
Lodgings — Modeling  at  the  Petite  £cole — "The  Marseillaise"  in 
English — Three  Friendships — Amusements  and  Activities — Walk- 
ing Trips — The  Tramp  through  the  Juras. 

BY  way  of  a  preface  to  the  previous  chapter  I  at- 
tempted to  describe  the  artistic  conditions  in  Amer- 
ica when  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  was  brought  here 
in  1848.  In  that  chapter  also  my  father  dwelt  upon  his  earli- 
est efforts,  which  covered  the  years  before  his  trip  abroad. 
From  his  description  it  can  be  seen  how  rapidly  American  art 
was  advancing  beyond  the  state  of  affairs  first  mentioned;  a 
school  in  the  Cooper  Institute  as  well  as  the  National  Acad- 
emy of  Design,  Huntington  and  Leutze  as  painters,  Launt 
Thompson  and  J.  Q.  A.  Ward  as  sculptors  of  reputation,  all 
this  had  arisen  in  the  ensuing  nineteen  years. 

Nevertheless,  the  opportunities  for  an  artistic  education 
still  appeared  bitterly  circumscribed.  The  first  equestrian 
statue  in  America,  Jackson  by  Clark  Mills,  in  Washington, 
was  not  unveiled  until  1853,  just  fifty  years  before  my  father's 
Sherman  was  erected  in  New  York.  Greenough,  Crawford,  and 
Powers  still  stood  as  the  masters.  To  produce  any  real  art  it 
is  as  needful  that  the  creator  have  something  to  say  as  that 
he  be  able  to  say  it.  Yet,  possibly  excepting  Greenough,  these 
earlier  sculptors  remained  mostly  craftsmen  rather  than  think- 
ers. With  the  passing  of  the  influence  of  this  group,  however, 
competent  workmanship  and  national  thought  began  to  show 

56 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

themselves.  More  and  more  did  the  sculptors  return  home 
to  their  tasks  after  they  had  learned  all  that  Europe  could 
profitably  give  them.  Once  back,  they  deserted  their  brothers 
overseas  in  their  homage  to  the  Greeks  and  Romans  in  order 
to  strive  with  their  own  sculptural  translation  of  American 
life.  What  was  real,  what  was  vital  crept  from  beneath  their 
hands  while  classic  notions  faded  into  the  past.  Then  the 
blast  of  the  Civil  War  swept  over  the  land.  None  could  live 
in  such  days  unstirred  by  new  emotions.  None  with  the  power 
to  express  such  emotions  could  any  longer  feel  timidity  in 
putting  forth  their  expressions.  Within  those  four  years 
captive  slaves,  wounded  warriors  vanished.  In  their  place 
came  new  heroes  to  glorify,  men  of  flesh  and  blood  at  the 
sight  of  whom  the  sculptors  themselves  had  thrilled. 

As  this  wave  gathered  strength  eight  fresh  names  appeared, 
the  names  which  dominated  sculptural  circles  during  the  final 
years  of  Saint-Gaudens'  New  York  adolescence.  They  were 
Henry  Kirke  Brown,  Erastus  D.  Palmer,  William  Wetmore 
Story,  Thomas  Ball,  Launt  Thompson,  Randolph  and  John 
Rogers,  and  J.  Q.  A.  Ward. 

Brown's  best  work  alone  antedated  the  Civil  War.  It  was 
his  Washington,  begun  one  month  after  the  unveiling  of  Mills* 
General  Jackson  and  erected  in  New  York  in  1856.  Yet  no 
two  objects  could  be  further  from  one  another  in  merit  than 
these  equestrian  monuments.  Brown  placed  before  his  pub- 
lic a  group  dignified,  truthful,  potent;  not  only  the  best  art 
of  its  own  time,  but  strong  sculpture  for  any  generation. 

Palmer  follows  in  company  with  Brown,  a  vivid  contrast 
to  William  Wetmore  Story,  his  contemporary.  For  while 
Palmer  never  obtained  an  opportunity  to  study  abroad,  and 
showed  scant  patience  with  diluted  imitations  of  Roman  copies 
of  Greek  ideas,  Story  remained  in  Rome  almost  his  whole  life, 
a  close  follower  of  Canova's  art.  Palmer's  greatest  success, 
his  "White  Captive,"  set  before  the  world  in  1858,  still  remains 
one  of  the  most  naively  charming  nudes  in  American  art ;  and 

57 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

what  is  more,  for  long  after  nothing  from  Europe  appeared 
before  us  so  sympathetically  human.  Story's  chief  work  came 
four  years  later,  "Cleopatra"  it  was  called,  and  developed  in  a 
wholly  cold  and  opposite  vein. 

Thomas  Ball  stood  between  the  two  men,  notable  chiefly 
for  his  " Washington,"  erected  in  1864  in  the  public  gardens 
in  Boston,  a  statue  of  dignified,  conscientious  workmanship. 
With  him  should  be  mentioned  Launt  Thompson,  of  whom  my 
father  has  already  spoken,  and  whose  reputation  in  these 
years  rested  solely  on  his  busts;  Randolph  Rogers,  with  two 
important  statues  of  Lincoln  and  Seward;  and  John  Rogers, 
remembered  to  this  day  for  his  "groups." 

J.  Q.  A.  Ward,  though  the  youngest,  I  have  purposely  left 
to  the  last,  since  the  public  to-day  recognizes  him  as  a  mod- 
ern in  every  sense  of  the  word.  Ward,  indeed,  was  only  twelve 
years  my  father's  senior;  but  those  twelve  years  made  his  age 
twenty-seven  when  his  "Indian  Hunter"  came  before  the  pub- 
lic and  Saint-Gaudens'  youthful  admiration.  Truly  the 
group  remains  a  work  which  justifies  the  instant  attention 
given  it,  vividly  convincing,  more  to  be  acknowledged  than  any 
ideal  figure  conceived  up  to  that  time,  or  long  after  it. 

It  can  be  seen  then  that,  through  this  second  period,  sculp- 
ture had  at  last  earned  its  right  to  exist  as  more  than  an 
afterthought  of  painting.  Also  the  general  spirit  of  those 
years  had  swung  nearer  the  monumental  field  of  art  than  the 
pictorial  one.  The  deep  emotions  of  the  war  were  fitter  for 
expression  in  stone  or  bronze  than  on  canvas.  Nevertheless 
the  stir  of  those  days  brought  with  it  an  indirect  effect  on  the 
latter  art.  For  interest  could  not  be  aroused  in  the  one 
division  without  showing  its  influence  in  the  other  until  the 
prosperity  of  painting  became  no  longer  open  to  question. 
The  population  was  increasing  faster  than  its  demands  could 
be  satisfied  in  the  day  of  undeveloped  photography,  inane 
wood  cuts,  and  an  absolute  lack  of  art  magazines  as  we  un- 
derstand  them.     Moreover,   the  painters,  like   the  sculptors, 

58 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

were  the  travelers,  the  cultured  group  in  the  busy  trade  city. 
They  formed  the  circle  to  which  the  merchant,  with  even  the 
slightest  thought  for  the  aesthetic  sides  of  life,  might  turn 
of  an  afternoon  for  an  hour  or  two  of  surreptitious  education. 

The  chief  movement  so  fostered  among  these  artists  was 
that  of  landscape  painting.  A.  B.  Durand  and  Thomas  Cole 
were  really  the  pioneers,  but  those  who  won  a  more  established 
place  for  themselves  were  William  Bradford,  Samuel  Coleman, 
William  T.  Richards,  Homer  D.  Martin  and  Thomas  Moran. 
For  the  most  part  they,  and  many  of  those  who  joined  with 
them,  formed  what  is  now  known  as  the  Hudson  River  School. 
They  believed  in  the  out  of  doors,  in  nature,  in  American  na- 
ture. All  of  them  studied  in  Europe,  yet  most  of  them  were 
mature  before  they  went  abroad,  were  men  who,  by  that  time, 
understood  their  own  desires  and  what  they  needed  to  satisfy 
them.  Therefore  when,  having  acquired  the  technique  they 
needed,  they  returned  to  this  their  land,  they  devoted  their 
lives  to  expressing  what  they  considered  the  keynote  of  this 
nation's  character,  its  landscapes.  Patriotism,  at  last,  was 
in  their  very  bones,  a  true  patriotism  which  drove  them  forth 
with  the  explorers  and  naturalists  to  return  with  their  repro- 
ductions of  the  beauties  of  their  mother  country. 

Such,  then,  was  the  spirit  of  art  in  the  United  States  at  the 
time  my  father  reached  his  nineteenth  year  and  turned  to 
Europe  for  study.  At  first  glance  it  might  be  thought  that, 
if  all  this  activity  was  aroused,  there  surely  could  be  no  vital 
need  for  Saint-Gaudens  to  leave  this  land  at  such  an  age  and 
at  the  cost  of  such  sacrifices  in  order  to  make  sufficient  prog- 
ress. But  on  a  little  consideration  it  becomes  obvious  that, 
though  there  were  then  so  many  who  were  learning,  as  yet  no 
capable  men  had  arrived  at  that  stage  where  they  either  cared 
to  teach,  or  were  able  to  do  so.  Consequently,  unless  a  youth 
was  willing  to  take  his  chances  at  learning  hit  or  miss,  which 
was  never  the  philosophy  of  my  father's  studious  mind,  Eu- 
rope alone  offered  any  proper  training.     It  should  be  noticed, 

59 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

also,  that  in  going  to  France  for  his  earliest  instruction 
Saint-Gaudens  followed  a  program  quite  different  from  that 
of  the  usual  run  of  student  sculptors.  I  do  not  believe  that 
his  action  was  thought  out  at  the  time.  He  visited  Paris  both 
because  of  the  exhibition  there,  which  he  has  mentioned,  be- 
cause he  had  relatives  in  that  land,  and  because  his  father  was 
a  Frenchman.  But  his  unconscious  choice  proved  his  salvation. 
Paris  was  a  vitalizing  influence  where  Rome  would  have  been  a 
deadening  one,  since  it  is  not  hard  to  fancy  what  an  unfortu- 
nate distortion  Rome  might  have  given  him  in  those  younger 
days.  Even  later,  when  he  studied  there,  the  tendencies  of 
the  "Eternal  City"  acquired  a  prompt  grip  upon  the  indi- 
viduality of  his  conceptions  which  luckily  his  strength  in  his 
craft,  manifest  by  then,  allowed  him  to  cast  aside. 

In  the  reminiscences  that  follow,  my  father  turns  to  his 
attempt  to  support  himself  while  studying  art  in  Paris.  His 
account,  however,  requires  a  foreword;  since,  while  he  gives 
some  description  of  the  straits  he  was  put  to,  it  is  necessary 
to  remember  the  optimism  of  his  nature  to  realize  beneath 
his  words  the  depths  of  his  poverty.  This  cheerful  facing 
of  hard  times  in  the  cause  of  art  was  consistent  through  all 
his  student  days.  Indeed  he  ever  insisted  that  the  manner  in 
which  to  meet  material  difficulties  was  with  a  sense  of  their  small 
importance  compared  to  the  outcome.  "Try  not  to  dwell  on 
the  ugly  side  of  things,"  he  would  say.  "Make  the  best  of 
everything.  Of  course  discontent  is  what  creates  progress, 
but  harping  on  conditions  is  unwise.  If  it  is  possible,  I  would 
grin  at  troubles.     There  is  no  doubt  about  that.     Grin!" 

The  certainty  that  in  this  early  time  he  practised  what  later 
he  preached  lies  in  the  fact  that  every  friend  testifies  of  him 
as  a  happy  youth.  Mr.  Thomas  Moore,  who  knew  him  in 
the  New  York  student  days,  has  written:  "I  often  think 
of  the  old  times  when  we  four,  Gus,  Herzog,  Gortelmeyer, 
and  myself,  after  class  hours  at  the  Cooper  Institute  on 
Saturday   nights,   took   long   walks    arm   in   arm   to    Central 

60 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Park  shouting  airs  from  'Martha,'  the  Marseillaise,  and  the 
like,  in  which  Gus  was  always  the  leader  with  his  voice  and 
magnetic  presence."  Of  the  period  now  especially  to  be  dealt 
with,  M.  Alfred  Gamier  has  said:  "In  Jouffroy's  class,  when 
Gus  became  a  senior,  he  was  one  of  the  most  turbulent  of  the 
lot,  singing  and  whistling  to  split  your  ears.  All  of  which 
did  not  hinder  him  from  working  with  his  whole  soul  and  think- 
ing of  the  future." 

Before  recurrence  to  my  father's  text  I  should  mention  also 
the  kind  attitude  of  the  third  cameo-cutter  for  whom  he  worked, 
M.  Lupi,  a  man  who,  realizing  the  worth  of  Saint-Gaudens' 
nature,  gave  every  possible  effort  to  aid  in  the  young  man's 
advancement.  The  most  constantly  repeated  of  his  employ- 
er's precepts  needs  a  reference  here,  since  this  advice,  my 
father  ever  after  insisted,  contributed  as  much  as  anything 
else  to  his  later  success  in  relief  modeling. 

"Beware  of  the  'boule  de  suif !' "  Lupi  would  say. 

"Boule  de  suif"  is  translated  as  a  "drop  of  grease."  What 
Lupi  meant  by  his  warning  was  that  the  sculptor  should  be 
certain  to  give  character  to  the  outlines  of  relief  surfaces  by 
a  method  of  accenting  which  involved  a  technical  principle, 
elementary,  but  seldom  practised. 

The  reminiscences  now  take  up  these  early  Paris  days: 

Father  paid  for  my  passage  abroad,  and  gave  me 
one  hundred  dollars  which  he  had  saved  out  of  my 
wages.  In  February,  1867,  I  sailed  for  Europe  on 
The  City  of  Boston  which  was  subsequently  lost  at 
sea.  This  is  not  one  of  my  parent's  gasconades,  my 
experience  differing  from  his  in  that  I  did  not  intend 
to  sail  on  The  City  of  Boston  on  the  trip  when  she 
disappeared.  At  that  time  I  was  just  nineteen.  I 
went  over  in  the  steerage,  where  I  was  sicker  than  a 

Gl 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

regiment  of  dogs.  The  experience  Was  just  as  horri- 
ble as  the  night  in  the  cell  only  more  prolonged. 
Somehow  or  other  I  got  from  Liverpool  to  Paris.  I 
can  recall  nothing  but  the  cursed  misery  of  crossing  the 
channel  from  Folkestone  to  Dieppe. 

The  arrival  in  Paris,  however,  was  extraordinarily 
impressive.  I  walked  with  my  heavy  carpet  bag  from 
the  Gare  du  Havre  down  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
where  I  stood  bewildered  with  the  lights  of  that  square 
and  of  the  Avenue  des  Champs  ^lysees  bursting  upon 
me.  Between  the  glory  of  it  all  and  the  terrible 
weight  of  the  bag,  which  increased  as  I  made  my  way 
up  the  interminable  Avenue  des  Champs  £lysees  to 
the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  I  arrived  in  a  mixed  state  of 
collapse  and  enthusiasm  where  my  uncle  Francois 
Saint- Gaudens  lived  on  the  Avenue  de  la  Grand- 
Armee.  Here  I  was  welcomed,  with  thorough-going 
French  emotion  for  the  strange  "Cousin  d'Amerique," 
by  my  uncle,  a  nervous  man  who  had  been  a  great  gym- 
nast in  his  youth,  and  by  his  two  daughters,  Pauline 
and  Clorinda.  Francois  was  what  the  French  call  an 
"entrepreneur  de  demolition,"  with  his  affairs  in  an 
ugly  condition,  never  having  recovered  from  some  bad 
contracts  for  the  removal  of  public  buildings. 

For  the  most  part  during  my  stay,  however,  I  saw 
my  relatives  only  occasionally.  My  uncle,  who  was  in 
bad  straits,  I  left  as  soon  as  my  hundred  dollars  had 
gone  through  his  fingers.  Besides,  I  became  thor- 
oughly engrossed  in  my  work  and  they  were  far  off. 
Now  and  then,  however,  I  visited  one  of  these  cousins 

62 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

who  had  married  a  wealthy  iron-master  and  lived  at  a 
place  called  Lieusaint,  a  short  distance  from  the  scene  of 
the  robbery  of  the  Lyons  Mail,  an  event  which  has  been 
dramatized  with  tremendous  success  in  French,  trans- 
lated and  acted,  as  we  all  know,  in  a  wonderful  way  by 
Sir  Henry  Irving.  But  these  trips  to  the  country 
bored  me  beyond  measure  and  in  consequence  were  few, 
although  with  this  cousin  I  had  perhaps  more  in  com- 
mon than  with  any  other  member  of  the  family.  Her 
husband,  M.  Maritz,  came  from  Strasburg,  being  a 
nephew  of  a  French  General  of  Engineers  who  mar- 
ried the  other  sister. 

A  day  or  two  after  my  arrival  I  went  about  in 
search  of  employment  at  cameo  cutting  and  of  admis- 
sion to  the  School  of  Fine  Arts.  The  cameo  cutting 
I  obtained  at  once  from  an  Italian,  Lupi,  who  lived  in 
the  Rue  des  Trois  Freres  in  the  picturesque  quarter 
near  the  top  of  Montmartre.  When  I  left  my  uncle's 
house  I  lived  first  in  a  room  adjoining  Lupi's,  attend- 
ing a  modeling  school  in  the  mornings  and  nights,  and 
supporting  myself  on  what  I  earned  by  the  cameos  I 
cut  in  the  afternoon.  But  I  worked  so  much  at  the 
school  and  so  little  at  the  cameos  that  I  became  miser- 
ably poor,  barely  earning  enough  for  my  living. 

As  far  as  I  can  recall  there  was  nothing  here  of 
amorous  adventure,  other  than  a  letter  from  Mary 
F asking  me  whether  I  still  meant  to  "keep  com- 
pany" with  her.  I  fear  that  the  new  life  made  me  for- 
get to  reply  to  this  note,  for  I  was  busy  moving  from 
place  to  place,  to  cheaper  and  cheaper  lodgings.     As 

G3 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

the  journey  twice  a  day  to  my  school  from  Montmartre, 
ten  miles  in  all,  became  very  fatiguing,  I  took  a  room  in 
the  Rue  Jacob  in  the  Latin  Quarter  quite  near  the 
school.  From  the  Latin  Quarter  I  went  to  some  dis- 
tant street  in  the  Vaugirard  Quarter,  where  I  stayed 
with  the  son  of  an  old  shoemaking  friend  of  my  father's. 
After  that  I  lived  elsewhere,  I  have  forgotten  upon 
what  street,  in  the  same  Quarter.  From  the  Vaugirard 
Quarter  I  moved  to  Truman  Bartlett's  studio  near  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe,  sleeping  on  a  mattress  on  the  floor. 
What  stands  out  in  my  memory  of  this  time  is  the 
reading  of  Plutarch's  Lives,  as  I  walked  each  morning 
down  the  Champs  ^lysees  from  the  Arc  de  Triomphe 
to  the  School  of  Fine  Arts.  The  things  he  wrote  of 
Germanicus  and  of  the  beauty  of  his  character  caused 
me  to  make  a  great  resolve  to  be  the  most  lovable  man 
that  ever  was.  Next,  with  an  old-time  Cooper  Union 
chum,  I  took  my  belongings  over  to  the  very  dirty, 
though  interesting  St.  Jacques  Quarter.  This  place 
I  found  drenched  with  the  odor  from  the  perfume  man- 
ufactory downstairs.  Accordingly,  in  process  of  time, 
I  and  my  friend  Herzog  occupied  two  small  bedrooms 
in  the  attic  of  a  fine  apartment-house  opposite  the  Col- 
lege of  France. 

While  I  am  on  the  subject  of  this  house  I  must  tell 
of  the  moving  there  from  the  St.  Jacques  Quarter. 
This  transfer  we  made  by  hiring  a  hand-cart  for  five 
cents  an  hour,  in  which  we  stowed  Herzog's  and  my 
possessions.  Our  treasures  consisted  of  two  cot  beds, 
two  pitchers,  two  basins,  a  lot  of  books  and  a  modeling 

64 


' 


■> 


s'udiks  kok  a  ioia  lain 

Kr.nu  AiitJiirfiwSiiiiil  linntlt  iik'o  »tu.l<  nl  »k.t.li  i »> 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

stand,  besides  some  clothes  and  bedding.  Limited  as 
they  were,  they  piled  up  more  than  the  cart  could  con- 
veniently carry.  So,  when  we  dragged  it  through  the 
streets  with  the  aid  of  a  third  friend,  we  lost  a  good 
quarter  of  them,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  one  of  us  ran 
behind  to  gather  the  driblets  that  were  dropped  along 
the  road.  Another  reason  why  this  method  of  trans- 
portation failed  was  that,  in  order  to  conceal  the  Spar- 
tan simplicity  of  our  household,  we  foxily  undertook 
our  moving  in  the  night. 

Here  in  our  latest  abode,  in  addition  to  our  other 
troubles,  I  attempted  for  some  little  time  to  give  sleep- 
ing space  to  an  enthusiastic  friend.  He  was  a  young 
Englishman  of  French  origin,  George  Thierry,  the  son 
of  a  wealthy  shoe-dealer.  He  had  run  away  from  home 
because  his  father  wished  him  to  declare  himself  a 
French  citizen  and  to  submit  to  the  French  conscrip- 
tion. He  had  no  money  and  led  a  miserable  dog's 
life  in  Paris.  When  he  started  from  his  father's  he 
had  purchased  a  handsome  rifle,  powder,  and  shot,  his 
idea  being  that  he  would  go  to  Africa  and  hunt  lions, 
but  the  merciless  and  suspicious  French  Custom  House 
took  away  his  shooting  material  and  his  romance.  By 
the  time  I  knew  him  he  was  in  a  miserable  condition. 

This  my  first  attempt  at  hospitality  did  not  last  long, 
however.  At  the  outset  we  attempted  to  sleep  to- 
gether on  my  cot  which  measured  two  and  one-half 
feet  across.  In  order  not  to  spill  over  on  the  sides  we 
had  to  stick  to  one  another  as  tight  as  two  spoons.  To 
save  space  Thierry  lay  with  his  head  on  my  arm.     In 

67 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

the  middle  of  the  night  we  turned  over  and  I  put  my 
head  on  his  arm.  This  left  us  the  next  morning  in  a 
condition  which  forbade  a  repetition  of  the  experiment. 
I  then  laid  the  mattress  on  the  floor  for  him,  while  I 
slept  on  the  canvas  bottom  of  the  bed.  But  I  suffered 
so  with  cold  coming  from  below,  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  I  dragged  all  my  clothes  over  me  from  the 
rack  at  my  feet,  that  even  this  arrangement  had  to  be 
abandoned. 

To  turn  now  to  my  studies,  my  entrance  into  the 
Beaux  Arts  I  found  a  formidable  business.  But  after 
much  running  around,  I  saw  at  last  M.  Guillaume,  the 
Director  of  the  School  of  Fine  Arts,  who,  to  my  think- 
ing, received  me  with  unusual  affability  for  so  wonder- 
ful a  man.  I  recall  his  smile  as  I  told  him  that  I  ex- 
pected to  learn  sculpture  during  the  nine  months  I 
proposed  to  remain  in  Paris,  the  limit  to  which  I  had 
expected  my  fortune  of  one  hundred  dollars  would  ex- 
tend. From  him  I  gathered  that  I  could  enter  only 
through  the  formal  application  of  the  American  Minis- 
ter. I  thereupon  called  on  Mr.  Washburne,  then  oc- 
cupying that  post.  He  also  seemed  kind,  smiled  as  I 
related  my  little  story,  and  said  that  I  would  be  in- 
formed when  the  application  had  been  accepted.  This 
notification  I  received  exactly  nine  months  after  hand- 
ing it  in. 

In  the  meantime,  fortunately,  I  not  only  earned  a 
good  living  by  cutting  cameos,  but  also  entered  a 
smaller  school,  though  an  excellent  one,  in  the  Rue  de 
l'J^cole  de  Medecine,  and  began  my  Parisian  studies, 

68 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

probably  in  March  or  April,  1868.  We  worked  in  a 
stuffy,  overcrowded,  absolutely  unventilated  theater, 
with  two  rows  of  students,  perhaps  twenty-five  in  each 
row,  seated  in  a  semicircle  before  the  model  who  stood 
against  the  wall.  Behind  those  who  drew  were  about 
fifteen  sculptors  and  I  look  back  with  admiration  upon 
the  powers  of  youth  to  live,  work,  and  be  joyful  in  an 
atmosphere  that  must  have  been  almost  asphyxiating. 
Here  I  modeled  my  first  figures  from  the  nude,  and 
laid  an  excellent  foundation  for  the  future. 

The  work  in  the  little  "liicole  de  Medecine,"  as  they 
called  it,  was  enlivened  by  many  amusing  incidents,  the 
result  of  the  radical  difference  in  the  characters  of  the 
two  professors  who  taught,  one  on  Wednesdays  and 
the  other  on  Saturdays.  Jacquot,  a  short,  loud-spoken, 
good-natured  professor  came  on  Wednesday.  He 
was  entirely  democratic,  saying  the  most  amusing 
things  to  the  pupils,  in  which  exuberant  conversation 
he  let  drops  of  saliva  fly  from  his  mouth  into  his  lis- 
teners' faces.  Although  merry  and  good-hearted,  he 
was  a  terror,  from  the  fact  that  he  indicated  our  errors 
with  very  thick  charcoal;  so  to  those  of  us  who  had 
learned  to  work  rather  delicately  and  firmly  his  marks 
were  only  bearable  because  of  the  jollity  with  which 
he  made  them.  While  he  taught,  the  boys  raised  as 
much  noise  as  the  uniformed  and  ill-natured  "gardien" 
at  the  doorway  would  permit. 

On  Saturdays  Laemelin  criticized,  a  man  of  a  to- 
tally different  type.  When  he  appeared,  the  class  re- 
mained silent.     He  was  austere,  taking  the  greatest 

69 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

care  to  apply  his  suggestions  with  light  touches,  always 
certain  and  correct.  Jacquot  talked  with  a  strange 
kind  of  mixed-up  lisp  as  if  he  had  a  marble  in  his 
mouth,  whereas  Laemelin  spoke  with  a  deliberate  nasal 
tone.  Jacquot  maintained  that  you  must  draw  freely 
and  with  no  fear  of  the  paper,  while  Laemelin' s  advice 
was  to  the  effect  that  you  should  draw  lightly,  care- 
fully, and  firmly,  and  not  with  sloppiness  as  do  those 
who  pretend  to  work  with  vigor.  The  result  of  this 
weekly  divergence  of  views  upon  the  boys  can  be  im- 
agined. 

One  Saturday  evening  Laemelin  came  as  usual  and 
began  criticizing  in  his  peaceful  way.  He  was  half 
around  the  lower  tier,  and  the  customary  quiet  pre- 
vailed in  his  presence,  When  a  noise  was  heard  in  the 
corridor.  To  our  surprise  and  delight,  Jacquot  tum- 
bled in,  sat  down,  and  proceeded  to  correct  the  boys 
who  had  already  been  corrected  by  Laemelin.  Thor- 
oughly absorbed  in  what  he  was  doing,  Laemelin  did 
not  observe  Jacquot's  entrance,  and  only  became  aware 
that  something  unusual  was  going  on  by  the  uproar 
Jacquot  made  and  by  the  undertone  of  confusion  the 
students  slyly  added. 

"Well,  well,  my  boy,  let  us  shee!  Let  us  shee!" 
said  Jacquot,  the  particles  of  saliva  being  shot  over 
the  drawings.  "Let  us  shee,  um-m-m!  Well,  your 
head's  too  big,  too  big.  Your  legsh  are  too  short." 
Then  bang!  bang!  would  come  the  black  marks  over  the 
drawing.  "There  you  are!  Fixsh  that,  my  boy, 
fixsh  that!" 

70 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Laemelin  by  this  time  had  raised  his  head  and,  look- 
ing over  his  spectacles  in  the  direction  of  the  noise,  had 
uttered  a  long  "Sh-h-h!"  Jacquot,  making  his  own 
disturbance,  did  not  hear  Laemelin.  Neither  saw  the 
other  in  their  deep  absorption.  Therefore  the  second 
time  Laemelin  added  to  his  "Sh-h-h!"  a  "What  is  the 
trouble?  Are  you  ever  going  to  stop  that  noise  over 
there?" 

"Whatsh  that?  Whatsh  that?"  spat  Jacquot. 
"Whatsh  the  matter  anyway?" 

Laemelin,  not  recognizing  Jacquot,  continued: 
"You  're  making  an  awful  lot  of  noise  over  there.  Be- 
have yourself!" 

Jacquot  looked  up.  "Whatsh  that?  Whatsh  that? 
Why,  ish  that  you,  Laemelin?  Hello!  Why,  what 
day  ish  this?" 

"To-day  is  Saturday,"  drawled  Laemelin,  slowly 
and  emphatically. 

"Mon  Dieu!  Ish  that  so!  I  thought  it  wash  Wed- 
nesday. Isn't  that  funny?  Thunder,  isn't  that 
funny!"  Jacquot  roared. 

By  this  time  he  was  so  amused  at  the  incident  that 
his  voice  had  become  a  shout.  The  pupils  naturally 
joined  in  until  the  disturbance  reached  such  a  pitch  that 
the  "gardien"  ejected  a  number  into  the  night. 
Finally  Jacquot  left  in  a  storm  of  sputtering  and  hilar- 
ity, and  the  theater  resumed  its  placid  and  serene  quiet. 

Any  artist  tends  to  make  his  drawings  of  a  nude  re- 
semble his  own  figure,  and  our  friend  Jacquot  was 
twisted,  distorted,  and  gnarled  in  every  member  of  his 

71 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

body,  but  vigorously,  like  a  great  root.  In  especial 
he  must  have  had  the  most  remarkably  knotty  thighs; 
for,  though  I  have  spoken  of  the  energy  of  his  correc- 
tions, I  could  not  attempt  to  describe  his  particularly 
persistent  criticism  that  the  thighs  of  the  drawings  of 
the  pupils  were  never  big  enough.  To  overcome  this 
I  one  day  made  the  thighs  on  my  study  enormously 
large. 

"Very  good,  very  good,  very  good,  my  boy!"  he  said 
in  his  criticism,  turning  around  to  look  at  me.  Then 
he  slowly  surveyed  the  model  over  his  spectacles. 
"But  perhapsh  I  would  add  just  a  little  bit  on  the 
thighs,  eh?"     And  here  fell  his  merciless  marks! 

I  repeated  this  at  his  next  visit,  drawing  my  thighs 
in  still  more  exaggeration.  He  was  high  and  loud 
and  unusually  sputtering  in  his  praise  at  this,  and,  af- 
ter some  minor  remarks,  was  for  getting  up,  when  I 
said: 

"M.  Jacquot,  do  you  think  that  I  have  the  thighs 
big  enough?" 

"Yesh.  Yesh."  Then  he  hesitated  and  looked  at 
the  model.  "Sthill,  perhaps  I  would  add  justh  a 
shade,  justh  a  shade,  more."  And  again  came  his  in- 
evitable marks. 

Finally  on  the  third  occasion,  when  I  had  the  thighs 
resembling  balloons,  he  repeated  the  enthusiastic  ap- 
proval of  the  previous  visit,  and  I  impertinently  re- 
peated my  question  as  to  their  size.  He  surveyed  the 
drawing,  and  then,  evidently  recollecting  what  had 
passed   before,   although  it  had  been  dispersed  over 

72 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

three  weeks,  turned  to  me  with  a  strange  look  in  his 
wide-spread,  crooked,  china  eyes  and  said: 

"It  sheems  to  me  you  are  trying  to  make  a  damned 
fool  of  me!" 

All  this,  of  course,  added  to  the  delight  of  the  sur- 
rounding scamps,  for  he  delivered  his  remark  in  such 
a  way  that  it  was  I  who  found  myself  in  the  position  of 
the  "damned  fool." 

I  have  stated  his  name  as  Jacquot.  I  am  not  certain 
of  that.  It  might  have  been  Durant,  or  Martin.  But 
if  it  was  not  Jacquot  it  ought  to  have  been,  and  in 
calling  him  that  I  give  the  truer  impression.  It  cer- 
tainly describes  his  personality  better  than  do  the  other 
titles. 

In  these  surroundings,  then,  I  prospered  until  at 
last  I  was  awarded  the  first  prize,  and,  subsequently, 
with  a  lot  of  other  successful  youths,  received,  With  the 
medal,  a  crown  of  laurel,  presented  by  a  M.  de 
Nieuquerque,  a  large  man,  probably  Master  of  Fine 
Arts,  who  was  much  in  favor  at  the  Tuileries. 

At  this  time  also,  at  the  end  of  these  nine  months  of 
the  Petite  ficole,  I  felt  much  impressed  by  the  receipt 
of  a  large  envelope  with  the  United  States  seal  on  it, 
notifying  me  of  my  admission  to  the  Beaux  Arts. 
This  was  a  great  joy.  My  first  step  then  was  to  ob- 
tain the  authorization  from  the  Master  whose  atelier  I 
wished  to  enter.  I  followed  the  advice  of  a  boy,  Al- 
bert Dammouse,  since  then  one  of  the  leading  ceram- 
ists of  France,  a  man  of  exquisite  taste,  whose  friend- 
ship  I   had   made   in   the   little   £cole   de   Mcdecinc; 

73 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

and  selected  Jouffroy  both  because  Dammouse  had  a 
friend  with  that  master  and  because  at  that  time  Jouf- 
froy's  atelier  was  the  triumphant  one  of  the  Beaux 
Arts,  his  class  capturing,  as  a  rule,  most  of  the  prizes. 
From  there  Barrias  had  received  his  Prize  of  Rome 
three  years  before  I  arrived,  Falguiere  two  years  be- 
fore, and  Mercie  the  year  after. 

Jouffroy  was  tall,  thin,  dark,  wiry,  with  little,  intel- 
ligent black  eyes  and  a  queer  face  in  profile,  his  fore- 
head and  nose  descending  in  a  straight  line  from  the 
roots  of  his  hair  to  within  an  inch  of  the  end  of  the 
nose,  which  suddenly  became  round  and  red  and  pim- 
ply— though  the  ball  was  discreet  in  size;  it  would 
have  been  in  bad  taste  had  it  been  larger.  He  also 
had  stringy  hair  and  a  nasal  voice.  He  made  his  criti- 
cism in  a  low,  drawling  tone,  nine-tenths  of  the  time  in 
a  perfunctory  way,  looking  in  an  entirely  different  di- 
rection from  the  model  and  from  the  study.  Occa- 
sionally he  worked  on  the  figures  in  a  strange  fashion, 
his  right  hand  pawing  the  clay,  while  in  his  left  he  held 
a  little  wad  of  bread  which  he  constantly  rolled.  He 
was  much  in  vogue  at  the  Tuileries  at  that  time,  al- 
though he  had  achieved  his  distinction  some  ten  or  fif- 
teen years  before  my  arrival  by  one  of  the  master- 
pieces of  French  sculpture, — and  that  is  saying  a  good 
deal, — called  "The  Secret  of  Venus."  It  is  the  figure 
of  a  young  girl  standing  on  tiptoe,  whispering  into  the 
ear  of  a  Hermes.  This  remarkably  beautiful  nude  he 
modeled  in  the  classical  direction  then  prevailing,  but 
with  such  distinction,  reserve,  and  personality  that  the 

74 


STUDIES  OF  DRAPERY  AND  A  COMPOSITION  FROM  THE  STUDENT  SKETCH- 
BOOK OF  AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

He  was  always  extremely  fond  of  a  cowled  head 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

affectation  added  to  its  charm  instead  of  detracting 
therefrom.  I  know  nothing  of  his  other  sculpture,  ex- 
cept the  large  decorative  groups  on  each  side  of  the 
arches  at  the  entrance  of  the  Place  du  Carrousel,  as 
approached  from  the  river  Seine,  and  one  of  the  four 
groups  in  front  of  the  Grand  Opera.  They  are 
neither  one  thing  nor  the  other. 

To  Jouffroy,  therefore,  I  brought  my  drawings. 
In  two  days  I  was  admitted  and  immediately  plunged 
into  work,  being  the  only  American  in  the  class,  though 
Olin  Warner  followed  me  some  six  months  later.  It 
subsequently  became  the  atelier  where  most  of  the 
Americans  studied,  under  the  teachings  of  Falguiere 
after  the  death  of  Jouffroy  and  under  Mercie  after 
the  death  of  Falguiere.  I  was  by  no  means  a  bril- 
liant pupil,  though  the  steadiness  of  Jouffroy 's  compli- 
ments consoled  me  for  my  inevitable  failures  in  direct 
competition.  These  failures  did  not  for  a  moment  dis- 
courage me,  however,  or  create  any  doubts  in  my  mind 
as  to  my  assured  superiority.  Doubts  have  come 
later  in  life,  and  in  such  full  measure  that  I  have  abun- 
dantly atoned  for  my  youthful  presumption  and 
vanity. 

Mercie,  of  whom  I  have  spoken,  entered  the  atelier 
at  the  same  time  I  did  and  his  money  and  mine  were 
united  for  the  benefit  of  the  students  in  the  customary 
grand  spree.  In  the  midst  of  the  uproar  I  was  asked 
to  sing,  and  created  a  furore  of  enthusiasm  by  giving 
the  Marseillaise  in  English.  The  song  they  made  me 
repeat  again  and  again,  encouraging  me  by  praise  of 

77 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

my  voice,  which  in  my  idiotic  vanity  I  imagined  to  be 
as  beautiful  as  they  said.  I  proved  an  easy  victim. 
The  following  day  they  told  me  that  the  noise,  which 
rarely  ceased  in  the  atelier,  would  stop  the  moment 
the  massier,  the  President  and  Treasurer  of  the  class, 
entered  the  studio,  because  he  was  a  person  of  im- 
portance and  had  to  be  treated  with  respect.  That, 
of  course,  was  all  nonsense,  as  he  was  simply  one  of  the 
pupils  a  little  older  than  the  rest.  But  on  his  arrival 
there  fell  a  hush,  and  presently  certain  of  the  boys 
came  over  to  me  like  a  deputation,  saying  that  the 
massier  wished  me  to  sing  the  Marseillaise  in  English. 
I  refused  with  becoming  modesty  and  much  fright. 
They  retired  with  my  message,  but  soon  came  back  to 
me  with  another  from  him  insisting  on  the  song,  as  he 
had  heard  that  I  had  "a  wonderful  voice."  I  again  re- 
fused. The  third  time  they  explained  that  the  order 
was  imperative  and  that  if  I  did  not  obey  I  would  regret 
it.  I  immediately  began  and  bawled  away  at  the  top 
of  my  lungs,  to  hysterical  applause.  They  kept  this 
up  every  day,  for  so  long  a  time  that  I  am  ashamed  to 
recall  it,  before  I  realized  that  they  were  making  fun  of 
me.  That  was  why  I  was  not  made  to  undress,  or  to 
be  painted  nude,  or  to  undergo  any  of  the  numerous 
ignominies  that  the  poor  beginner  frequently  endures. 
I  was  finally  admitted  to  full  membership  and  teased 
no  more,  becoming  in  my  turn  one  of  the  most  boister- 
ous of  the  students. 

While  I  was  at  JoufFroy's  I  formed  three  of  my 
greatest  friendships;  one  was  for  Alfred  Gamier,  an- 

78 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

other  for  Paul  Bion,  a  long,  thin,  intellectual  young  fel- 
low who  had  been  brought  up  piously,  and  who  had 
been  most  shamefully  hazed  on  entering  the  school. 
He  possessed  a  nobility  of  character  unusual  in  such 
surroundings.  Perhaps  I  was  a  shade  less  brutal  than 
the  others,  and  for  that  reason  we  became  friends. 
Our  care  for  each  other  continued  without  break  or 
quarrel  to  the  day  of  his  death,  thirty  years  afterwards. 
The  third  friendship  I  made  was  with  a  Portuguese, 
Soares  dos  Reis.  He,  too,  was  long,  dark,  and  thin,  of 
an  effeminate  nature,  inclined  to  melancholy,  the  kind- 
est man  in  the  world.  He  committed  suicide  in  Portu- 
gal some  fifteen  years  later,  through  marital  troubles. 
He  had  an  exquisite  talent  and  I  shall  speak  more  of 
him  later  on. 

Although  this  was  certainly  a  very  important  part 
of  my  existence,  when  I  come  to  it  I  do  not  seem  to  be 
able  to  recall  incidents  as  I  did  of  an  earlier  period, 
nor  do  I  remember  appreciating  seriously  any  of  the 
things  that  ought  to  be  appreciated.  My  life  in  the 
atelier  was  the  regular  life  of  a  student,  with  most  of 
its  enthusiasms  and  disheartenings.  But  my  ambition 
was  of  such  a  soaring  nature,  and  I  was  so  tremen- 
dously austere,  that  I  had  the  deepest  scorn  for  the 
ordinary  amusements  of  the  light  operas,  balls,  and 
what  not  and  I  felt  a  Spartan-like  superiority  in  my 
disdain  for  the  famous  Schneider  in  Offenbach's  pro- 
ductions which  had  a  tremendous  success  at  that  time. 
I  have  since  entirely  changed  my  point  of  view  and 
regret  nothing  more  than  that  I  missed  the  plays  which 

79 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

have  become  classic,  and  which  were  then  done  in  a 
way  that  probably  will  not  be  repeated. 

On  the  other  hand  my  profundity  allowed  me  to  go 
to  the  Sunday  Classical  Concerts  at  the  Cirque 
d'Hiver  on  the  Boulevard  which  I  attended  with  great 
regularity.  There  are  seven  or  eight  such  concerts 
now,  I  am  told,  whereas  at  that  time  there  was  but  one, 
the  leader  of  which  was  M.  Pasdeloup.  I  heard  all  his 
good  music  and  was  a  witness  of  the  Sunday  battle 
when  he  attempted  to  introduce  Wagner  to  the  French 
audiences,  a  large  part  of  whom  came  with  the  delib- 
erate intention  of  suppressing  and  howling  down  the 
"Flying  Dutchman,"  one  of  the  principal  pieces  on 
the  program.  In  France,  the  whistle  is  the  sign  of 
derogation  and  disapproval,  and  the  spectators  brought 
numbers  of  them.  As  soon  as  the  leader  raised  his 
arm  for  the  first  bars  of  the  music,  the  storm  com- 
menced. It  was  so  great  that  it  was  impossible  to 
hear  the  musicians.  We  could  see  the  fiddlers  fiddling 
away  at  a  tremendous  rate  and  evidently  making  a 
lot  of  noise,  but  in  the  overpowering  uproar  of  the 
audience  it  seemed  like  a  dumb  show.  At  last  Pasde- 
loup gave  it  up.  Then  he  began  again.  The  uproar 
was  repeated.  After  this  second  attempt  he  turned  to 
the  audience, — he  was  a  short,  chubby  man, — and  said 
that  this  piece  was  on  the  program,  that  those  who 
disliked  it  had  not  been  forced  to  come  and  could  have 
remained  away  if  it  was  distasteful,  that  therefore  he 
was  going  to  play  it  right  through,  regardless  of  any 
antagonistic  demonstration,  and  that  if  they  did  not 

80 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

wish  to  hear  it  they  had  better  go  out  at  once.  He 
began  again  and  the  uproar  and  the  dumb  show  were 
repeated.  Now,  however,  the  friends  of  Wagner 
added  to  the  tumult  by  constant  applause,  until  little 
by  little  the  anti-Wagnerites  gave  way  and  the  last 
half  was  heard  in  comparative  order. 

At  this  time  I  was  active  beyond  measure.  After 
drawing-school  at  night  I  went  to  a  gymnasium  where 
I  exercised  more  violently  than  the  others,  and  where  I 
took  colder  douches.  Also  I  constantly  visited  the 
swimming  baths,  where  I  remained  longer  than  my 
friends.  Now,  too,  I  began  to  make  trips  into  the  coun- 
try with  Dammouse  and  Gamier.  But  as  I  recall 
them,  rather  than  a  wild  love  of  Nature,  these  were  the 
unconscious  expenditures  of  superabundant  energy 
wherein  the  number  of  kilometers  covered  furnished 
the  principal  pleasure.  Two  excursions  stand  out  con- 
spicuously. One  was  a  walk  from  Paris  to  St.  Valery, 
and  from  there  along  the  coast  to  Dieppe,  and  back  in 
the  cars.  Here  was  recalled  that  sense  of  delight  at 
seeing  hill  beyond  hill  that  came  to  me  on  Staten  Is- 
land. 

Another  trip  which  we  took  to  Switzerland  on  an 
absurdly  small  sum,  one  hundred  to  one  hundred  and 
fifty  francs,  had  for  me  an  interesting,  amusing,  pain- 
ful, and  sensational  beginning.  It  took  place  while, 
with  my  friend  Herzog,  I  occupied  that  attic  opposite 
the  College  of  France.  The  morning  I  started  from  my 
sixth  floor  I  shouldered  my  heavy  knapsack  with  a  tin 
drinking-cup  attached,  and  laced  up  my  heavy  shoes 

81 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

protected  with  smooth  hob-nails.  The  floors  of  the 
staircase  were,  as  those  familiar  with  that  class  of  house 
in  Paris  know,  thoroughly  waxed,  polished,  and  slip- 
pery. So  my  feet  went  out  from  under  me  on  the  top 
step  of  the  top  floor,  and  I  jangled  down  on  a  part  of 
my  body  not  intended  for  locomotion,  with  a  tremen- 
dous clatter  of  the  cup  and  other  paraphernalia.  The 
next  flight  I  approached  with  caution,  but  ineffectu- 
ally, and  the  riotous  descent  was  repeated.  Again  on 
the  stairs  below  I  resumed  my  unconventional  slide,  un- 
til persons  rushed  out  on  the  landings  from  their 
apartments,  and  servant  girls  stuck  their  heads  from 
the  kitchens  upon  the  resounding  court  in  wonder  and 
alarm  at  what  was  taking  place. 

From  that  scene  the  three  of  us  went  on  one  of  those 
awful  excursion  trains  as  far  as  Strasburg.  Then  we 
walked  to  Basel  in  Switzerland  and  along  under  the 
Jura  mountains  to  a  point  above  Coppet.  It  was 
here,  after  a  ferocious  climb  up  some  almost  inaccessi- 
ble hill,  that  the  stupendous  view  of  the  Alps  burst 
upon  us,  recalling  again  the  enchantment  of  my  first 
experience  of  nature  when  I  was  thirteen,  but  not 
equaling  it.  From  Coppet  we  went  along  Lake  Gen- 
eva to  the  Chateau  Chillon  at  the  end  of  the  Lake, 
walked  to  the  Chamounix  Valley,  climbed  Mont  Blanc 
as  far  as  the  Montanvert,  thence  returned  on  foot  in  a 
drenching  rain-storm  to  Geneva,  and  finally  reached 
Paris  with  a  franc  each  in  our  pockets. 

In  November,  1907,  M.  Gamier  wrote  to  Mr.  Louis  Saint- 
Gaudens   a  long  letter  describing  his  intimate  acquaintance 

82 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

with  my  father  at  the  time.  His  account  is  so  charmingly 
vivid  and  true  that  I  am  only  too  glad  of  the  opportunity  to 
translate  it  here,  almost  in  its  entirety: 

".  .  .  It  was  at  the  end  of  the  year  1868  or  the  begin- 
ning of  the  year  1869  that  I  first  knew  Augustus.  I  had 
heard  through  a  cameo  engraver  that  an  American,  a  pupil 
of  Avet's,  had  arrived  in  Paris,  with  the  intention  of  entering 
the  Beaux  Arts  School,  where  I  was  already.  I  think  that 
they  had  told  me  his  name.  Anyhow  a  few  days  afterwards, 
upon  going  in  the  evening  to  a  little  gymnasium  which  I  fre- 
quented in  a  street  near  the  Pantheon,  I  saw  a  young  man 
who  for  some  reason  or  other  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  Amer- 
ican in  question. 

"What  was  it  attracted  me  to  him?  Was  it  his  face?  Was 
it  his  eyes,  so  frank,  so  candid?  Yes,  perhaps  it  was  his  eyes. 
But  I  speak  of  course  of  his  eyes  of  twenty  years.  You  do 
not  remember  them  as  I  do,  for  I  must  explain  that  a  few 
years  later  they  entirely  changed.  At  this  earlier  period  Gus 
felt  that  the  uncertainty  of  the  morrow  had  vanished,  that 
he  was  about  to  be  able  to  earn  his  living  easily,  that  his  grow- 
ing talent  had  begun  to  be  known.  Later  a  tranquillity  re- 
placed his  cheerfulness.  When  the  one  came  the  other  went 
away,  and  the  candid  look  in  his  eye  disappeared.  By  that 
time  he  had  seen  life  and  discovered  its  fickleness.  He  told 
me  that  either  you  or  he  once  said,  upon  meeting  a  young  dog 
who  gazed  at  you  with  frankness  and  innocence:  'There  is 
another  who  wishes  to  be  deluded.'  Gus,  in  the  beginning  so 
open-minded  and  ingenuous,  soon  learned  that  life  was  de- 
ceitful. 

"The  day  after  our  meeting,  Sunday  morning,  I  went  for 
a  walk  before  lunch  in  spite  of  rainy,  foggy  weather.  Many 
persons  then  were  in  the  habit  of  going,  out  of  curiosity,  to 
look  at  the  show-windows  of  a  celebrated  picture  dealer  of 
the  time,  named  d'Angleterre,  who  lived  at  the  corner  of  Rue 
de  Seine  and  another  little  street  which  entered  it,  forming  a 

83 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

sharp  angle.  .  .  .  After  having  turned  into  this  quar- 
ter, very  much  changed  since  then,  I  naturally  strolled  towards 
d'Angleterre's.  There  I  saw  my  American.  I  went  up  to 
him  and  spoke,  perhaps  with  a  little  impertinence.  To  all 
of  my  advances  he  answered  only  indifferently,  making  me  feel 
that  I  would  do  him  a  very  sensible  pleasure  if  I  left  him 
alone.  But  in  spite  of  his  unwillingness,  when  he  turned  from 
the  show-windows  without  saying  either  'Good-day'  or  'Good- 
night,' I  remained  beside  him,  and,  to  my  own  surprise,  walked 
along  with  him  under  the  rain  which  fell  heavily,  and  con- 
tinued a  one-sided  conversation.  In  such  a  manner  we  went 
around  all  the  little  streets  of  that  region,  he,  no  doubt,  wish- 
ing to  have  me  leave  him;  until  at  last  he  arrived  in  the  Rue 
Jacob,  where,  coming  before  a  house,  he  saluted  me  coolly, 
saying  that  he  was  now  home,  and  disappeared.     .     .     . 

"On  the  next  occasion  in  the  gymnasium,  however,  my  demon 
got  hold  of  me  still  more  strongly  and,  in  spite  of  efforts 
to  the  contrary,  I  stayed  with  Gus  until  I  ridiculed  myself. 
Finally,  after  a  few  more  such  evenings,  we  wrestled  with  our 
bodies  all  naked  except  for  a  pair  of  trunks  and  the  slippers 
on  our  feet.  Then  after  having  thrown  each  other  a  dozen 
times  into  the  black  sawdust — you  can  imagine  how  we  looked 
with  all  that  sawdust  stuck  by  the  sweat  to  our  faces  and  to 
our  bodies — we  rushed  to  the  shower-baths,  and  the  bitter  cold 
water  which  came  from  the  reservoirs  placed  in  the  open  lofts 
ran  over  us,  and  a  fog-like  vapor  rose  from  our  skins  till  the 
gas  was  dimmed.  Augustus  was  crazy  about  wrestling.  Ah, 
the  good  old  times !  After  we  had  plentifully  rolled  each  other 
around  and  crushed  each  other's  skin,  after  the  sweat  of  one 
had  run  down  with  the  sweat  of  the  other,  the  ice  was  finally 
broken.  My  good  star  had  well  guided  me  that  morning 
when,  in  spite  of  his  unwillingness,  I  forced  Gus  to  submit  to 
my  presence  in  the  rain  as  far  as  his  door.  I  had  met  my  true 
friend,  the  one  I  have  always  held  before  all  the  others  for 
whom  I  have  cared.     .     .     . 

84 


' 


SKETCH  PORTRAIT  OK  AUC.ISTIS  SAINT  OAIDKNS.  DRAWN  BY   IIIMSKI.K 

Tins  w»«  inmii-  prubalily  iilmut  Hi.   tin. i»  "r*l  lri|>  Nlmm.l 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

"I  was  chiefly  impressed  by  Gus'  possessing  so  strongly  the 
qualities  of  a  man  who  was  bound  to  succeed.  I  often  went 
to  see  him  in  his  room  where  he  engraved  cameos  to  earn  his 
livelihood,  as  you  know.  For  though  in  the  mornings  he  came 
to  the  class  room  of  the  school,  his  afternoons  had  to  be  con- 
secrated to  earning  his  living.  At  this  period  Augustus  was 
the  gayest  of  young  men,  though  that  did  not  prevent  his 
undertone  of  seriousness  and  reflection.  I  remember  how 
much  he  was  moved  when  he  received  a  few  dollars  which  his 
parents  sent  to  him.  He  thought  probably  of  the  privations 
which  he  imposed  on  them  for  the  sake  of  his  success,  and  he 
used  to  ask  himself  if  the  time  would  ever  come  when  he  would 
be  able  to  help  them  in  his  turn.  But  I  repeat  that  then  he 
was  the  most  joyous  creature  that  one  could  see. 

"For  amusement  we  often  swam  in  the  baths  of  the  Louvre. 
When  one  of  us  suggested  it,  we  always  added,  'Are  n't  you 
coming,  Saint-Gaudens?'  for  we  knew  this  to  be  his  weakness. 
He  would  go  in  the  morning  at  five  o'clock  in  order  not  to  in- 
terrupt his  work.  But  frequently  somebody  would  be  able 
to  lead  him  astray  again  during  the  day.  I  always  accom- 
panied him.  He  swam  well  and  with  unusual  enjo}rment.  For 
that  reason  it  was  fine  to  see  him.  His  health  so  glowed 
in  his  body  that  one  day  I  said  to  him,  'You  arc  as  pretty 
as  a  little  nursing  pig.'  You  should  have  seen  him  throw 
himself  from  the  top  of  the  stairs,  diving,  disappearing,  and 
reappearing.  I  tell  you  again  it  was  intoxication  for 
him.* 

*  This  love  of  swimming  continued  through  all  his  life.  He  has  made  a 
number  of  references  to  it  through  the  book.  Also  on  July  26,  1899,  he 
wrote  to  my  mother  this  characteristic  paragraph:  "I  received  your  letter 
from  Cornish  which  makes  me  very  homesick  for  it.  But,  as  usual  with 
every  one  who  writes  me  from  that  place,  you  give  me  no  details  of  what 
interests  me  more  than  anything  else  on  earth,  wife,  child,  God,  and  the 
Angel  GabrieJ,  everything,  t.  e.,  the  POOL  back  of  the  studio  and  the 
water  works  pertaining  to  it.  Please  write  a  letter  about  nothing  else 
but  that,  if  you  wish  me  to  bear  with  life." 

87 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

"Several  times  we  took  long  walks  with  Dammouse,  of 
twelve  or  fifteen  leagues  a  day.  Once  in  especial  we  went  from 
Paris  by  railroad  as  far  as  Nantes  and  from  there,  each  of 
us  with  a  knapsack,  we  passed  through  Rouen  afoot  as  far 
as  St.  Valery  en  Caux.  Five  minutes  after  we  reached  the 
seashore  we  were  in  the  water  in  spite  of  the  heavy  waves, 
for  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  water  Gus  had  to  enter,  and  I  had 
to  follow,  thinking  that  the  sea  was  always  heavy  like  that. 
Soon  we  heard  persons  yelling  at  us,  because  the  day  before  a 
young  man  had  been  drowned  there.  Then  we  came  back  to 
the  shore.  On  that  occasion  Dammouse,  who  was  prudence 
itself  and  who  always  remained  concentrated  prudence, 
watched  us  tranquilly.  But  afterwards  we  all  went  in  swim- 
ming again  time  after  time,  for  we  followed  the  coast  as  far  as 
Dieppe. 

"For  the  vacation  of  1869  Augustus,  Dammouse,  and  I 
planned  a  journey  into  Switzerland.  As  soon  as  we  men- 
tioned it  to  Gus  he  wanted  to  start.  But  it  was  necessary  to 
provide  a  purse  and  baggage  and  good  shoes.  We  had  all 
the  trouble  in  the  world  to  get  Augustus  to  understand  this. 
He  said,  'Better  leave  at  once.  We  will  see  about  those  things 
afterwards.'  Finally,  however,  like  ourselves,  he  scraped  to- 
gether a  little  money,  his  knapsack,  and  what  was  necessary 
to  put  into  it.  We  left  in  a  third-class  excursion-train  bound 
for  Strasburg.  I  do  not  remember  just  how  we  managed  to 
sell  our  return  tickets,  but  we  sold  them.     .     .     . 

"The  next  day  we  visited  the  cathedral  and  went  to  the  top 
of  the  spire  to  admire  the  panorama.  Augustus  was  always 
the  best  and  the  most  enthusiastic  in  his  admiration.  Nobody 
got  his  money's  worth  so  well  as  he.  Everything  seemed  en- 
chanting, everything  beautiful.  We  bathed  in  the  Rhine. 
We  passed  over  it  on  a  bridge  of  boats  and  drank  beer  in 
Germany.  It  was  wonderful.  Fortunately  we  had  given  our 
money  to  Dammouse  to  keep;  he  was  charged  to  pay  the  ex- 
penses.    We   knew   that   he  was   more   reasonable   than  our- 

88 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

selves,  and  therefore  would  prevent  our  committing  fol- 
lies.    .     .     . 

"From  Strasburg  we  directed  our  steps  across  the  beautiful 
country  of  Alsace  to  Basel.  There  we  visited  the  museum,  al- 
though it  was  not  the  entry  day,  because  we  were  furnished 
with  a  letter  from  M.  Guillaume,  on  the  official  paper  of  the 
Minister  of  Fine  Arts,  which  described  us  as  distinguished 
pupils  of  the  school  traveling  for  instruction. 

"The  next  morning  we  left  Basel  at  the  caprice  of  the  winds. 
After  a  few  leagues  we  began  to  follow  a  valley  through  which 
ran  a  brook  that  from  time  to  time  we  saw  below  the  road. 
Then,  all  at  once,  on  the  slope  beyond  the  stream,  we  caught 
sight  of  a  little  old  castle.  We  stopped  to  admire  it,  where- 
upon, at  a  window,  a  large  window  way  up  near  the  top,  ap- 
peared a  woman.  Was  it  a  woman  or  a  young  girl?  From 
the  distance  we  could  not  tell.  Naturally,  however,  she  ap- 
peared to  us  young  and  beautiful,  seen  in  a  castle  from 
afar  by  youths  of  twenty.  Perhaps  we  were  more  visible  to 
her  than  she  was  to  us,  for  we  had  on  white  blouses  with 
striped  waistbands,  trousers  tucked  in  our  gaiters,  slouch 
hats,  and  knapsacks  on  our  backs.  At  any  rate,  after  a  mo- 
ment, our  delightful  young  girl,  whom  we  made  out  so  indis- 
tinctly, waved  a  white  scarf.  Immediately  the  imagination 
of  Augustus  and  myself  took  fire  and  flame,  though  not  so 
the  imagination  of  our  little  pocket-book,  Dammouse.  We 
began  to  ask  ourselves,  'Is  she  not  an  unfortunate  woman  im- 
prisoned in  this  castle  by  some  horrible  husband?  Would  it 
not  be  generous  and  chivalrous  for  us  to  deliver  her?'  Ah, 
how  charming  were  all  those  foolish  notions  which  passed 
through  our  heads!  'Yes,  but  we  still  have  a  long  journey 
to  make  before  arriving  at  our  stopping-place,'  our  cashier 
interrupted.  So  with  a  hunch  of  our  shoulders  to  replace 
our  knapsacks,  we  once  more  took  the  road. 

"Finally,  when  night  had  almost  fallen,  we  reached  a  pic- 
turesque village  of  German  Switzerland.     At  the  same  time  a 

89 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

formidable  storm  began  to  threaten.  So  we  inquired  the  di- 
rection of  the  Hotel  de  l'Ours,  to  which  we  had  been  recom- 
mended, from  some  children  around  a  fountain,  who  promptly 
ran  away.  But  at  last  we  came  upon  the  inn,  an  immense 
and  beautiful  chalet  of  wood,  reached  by  a  flight  of  about  ten 
steps.  Augustus  was  in  a  state  of  ravishment,  and  I  also. 
The  place  was  large,  clean,  and  hospitable. 

"By  this  time  the  storm  had  unchained  itself,  the  thunder 
rolling  from  valley  to  valley  as  one  long  peal.  Nevertheless 
we  ate  a  cozy  meal  with  five  or  six  of  us  at  the  table,  among 
others  a  White  monk  who  had  beside  him  an  enormous  dog. 
The  monk  seemed  a  good  man.  He  ate  little,  gave  slices  of 
his  food  to  the  dog,  and,  as  he  left  us,  he  asked  permission 
of  the  company  to  take  a  flower  from  the  little  bouquet  which 
was  on  the  table.  When  we  went  up  to  bed  the  door  of  the 
monk's  room  was  wide  open  and  the  dog  asleep  on  the  thresh- 
old. I  said,  'Is  n't  it  true,  Augustus,  that  we  are  really  happy 
to  be  alive?' 

"The  next  morning  at  dawn  we  arose,  and  asked  for  some 
cold  meat  left  over  from  the  previous  supper.  We  each  had 
a  gourd,  in  one  of  which  we  carried  white  wine;  also  we  pos- 
sessed a  tin  box  in  which  we  placed  butter.  While  passing 
through  a  village  we  filled  the  other  two  gourds  with  milk,  and 
bought  a  big  loaf  of  bread  of  five  or  six  pounds'  weight  which 
we  tied  on  to  the  top  of  a  knapsack.  Our  elegant  meal  cost 
not  more  than  thirty  cents  for  the  three.  Kings  were  not 
cousins  to  us  as  we  walked  on  again  until  eleven  o'clock  at  night. 

"Every  day  we  did  about  the  same  thing,  hardly  ever  lunch- 
ing at  a  tavern.  We  had  little  money  and  spent  little.  We 
passed  by  Bienne  to  Neuchatel,  following  the  Jura  until  we 
arrived  above  the  lake  of  Geneva  and  later  above  Coppet. 
While  on  this  road  we  were  lost  in  the  enormous  declivity  of 
the  mountain  from  which  we  could  not  extricate  ourselves  ex- 
cept by  climbing  a  precipice  of  several  hundred  feet.  On  the 
summit  we  were  attacked  by  a  bull. 

90 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

"Once  we  were  surprised  by  the  coming  of  night  and  rain ; 
and,  far  from  any  village,  we  perceived  in  a  hollow  below  the 
road  that  we  were  following  an  isolated  cabin  which  bore  above 
the  door  a  branch  from  a  gin  bush,  a  sprig  of  green  which 
was  the  sign  of  a  tavern.  We  knocked  before  entering,  on  ac- 
count of  the  dogs  that  had  already  annoyed  us.  A  horrible 
woman  came  to  open  the  door  for  us  and  said  at  once,  'The 
gendarmes  are  here!'  For  seeing  us  all  wet,  with  our  big 
overcoats,  our  hats,  and  our  knapsacks,  she  took  us  for  smug- 
glers. I  understood  her  mistake  and  we  entered,  to  her  ter- 
ror. Indeed  there  was  a  sergeant  of  the  gendarmes  inside, 
for  we  had  just  crossed  the  frontier  and  were  in  France.  We 
explained  ourselves  very  amicably  to  the  gendarme,  who  for- 
tunately was  far  from  stupid.  Then  the  woman  told  us  she 
would  give  us  dinner  and  a  bed.  My  God,  what  a  dinner  and 
what  a  bed ! 

"Another  time  some  of  these  French  Custom  House  men, 
drunk  as  pigs  because  they  had  swallowed  the  brandy  which 
they  had  confiscated  at  the  frontier,  wanted  to  arrest  us,  say- 
ing that  we  had  no  passports.  They  would  have  thrown  us 
into  prison  if  we  had  not  shouted  so  much  louder  than  they 
that  they  were  afraid. 

"On  reaching  Coppet,  we  followed  the  shore  of  the  lake  as 
far  as  Lausanne,  taking  baths  at  intervals,  for  we  always 
jumped  in  when  there  was  water.  Once  Augustus  wished  that 
we  two  should  swim  across  a  sort  of  little  bay.  All  went 
well  until  I  was  half  way  on  the  trip,  when,  having  turned  my 
head  and  seeing  myself  far  from  both  shores,  I  became  fright- 
ened. Augustus  was  a  few  strokes  ahead  of  me.  'Don't  swim 
so  fast!  I  want  to  catch  up  to  you,'  I  shouted.  And  then 
the  fear  ceased  as  I  encouraged  myself  in  thinking  that  if  I 
were  to  drown  he  would  drown  also  in  trying  to  save  me.  To- 
gether we  finished  the  crossing  easily,  but  I  never  dared  to  tell 
him  of  my  fright. 

"About    thirty    years    afterwards,    in    our    beautiful    trip 

91 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

through  Italy,  Augustus  often  remarked  to  me  that  our  jour- 
ney through  the  Juras  and  in  Switzerland  was  one  of  the  fin- 
est he  ever  had,  incomparable  to  any  others.  I  agree  with 
him." 


92 


IV 
THE  FIRST  STAY  IN  ITALY 

1869-1872 

War  Declared  on  Germany — The  Desire  to  Enlist— Wartime  in 
France — The  Journey  to  Rome — The  Beauty  of  Rome — William 
Gedney  Bunce — A  Studio  with  Soares — The  Eruption  of  Vesuvius 
— Dr.  Henry  Shiff — Roman  Fever — The  Generosity  of  Montgom- 
ery Gibbs — The  Hiawatha — Other  Commissions — The  Return 
Home. 

THE  joy  of  that  walking  trip  so  charmingly  described  by 
M.  Gamier  did  not,  however,  remain  long  with  my 
father  and  his  young  friends.  For  scarcely  had  they 
reached  home  when  the  gathering  clouds  of  the  Franco-Prus- 
sian struggle  closed  over  them.  M.  Gamier  describes  that 
moment : — 

"Gus  and  I  were  at  the  opera  with  Pablo  Defelice  at  the 
time  that  war  was  declared.  I  believe  they  were  playing  'La 
Muette  de  Portici.'  At  any  rate,  near  the  end  of  the  per- 
formance, the  principal  actor  came  before  the  audience  with 
a  flag  in  his  hand  to  call  on  them  to  sing  the  National  Hymn. 
Then  every  one  went  crazy  and  we  no  less  than  the  others,  so 
crazy  that  soon  we  found  ourselves,  with  Bastion-Lepage  and 
one  of  his  friends,  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  where  we 
hammered  with  fists  and  canes  a  number  of  idiots  who  were 
crying  'To  Berlin  !'  " 

The  question  of  whether  or  not  to  follow  the  example  of 
almost  all  his  friends  and  enlist,  gave  my  father  infinite  dis- 
tress ;  and  his  ultimate  leaving  of  Paris  for  quieter  parts  was 
only  at  the  cost  of  much  pride,  sacrificed  to  the  wishes  of  his 

93 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

mother,  for  whom  he  held  the  greatest  affection.  A  letter 
which  I  will  translate,  written  by  him  to  Mr.  Gamier,  pre- 
sents with  much  vividness  my  father's  attitude  during  the  bit- 
ter months  of  the  conflict.  From  this  letter  I  will  turn 
abruptly  to  the  reminiscences  which  give  the  point  of  view  of 
the  man  so  many  years  later.  Despite  the  fact  that  he  did 
not  know  of  the  existence  of  the  letter  at  the  time  he  wrote 
his  autobiography,  the  two  frames  of  mind  are  strikingly 
similar,  his  sadness  over  the  barbarous  futility  of  war  clash- 
ing then,  as  later,  with  his  ardent  patriotism.  The  situation 
offers  a  typical  opportunity  to  show  how  unusually  mature 
were  his  judgments  as  a  youth.     The  letter  reads: 

Limoges,  Septembre  21,  1870. 
Cher  Alfred: 

Quoique  le  service  regulier  des  postes  est  interrompu 
j'espere  que  ceci  te  parviendra.  Je  suis  persuade,  et 
je  ne  t'en  blame  pas,  que  tu  dois  te  dire:  Voila  un 
lache!  Mais  je  tiens  (et  je  suis  certain  que  tu  me  com- 
prendras)  a  me  justifler  'j'etais  a  Lieusaint  le  3  Sep- 
tembre, done  j'ignorais  ce  qui  s'etait  passe,  soit  la  de- 
faite  de  Sedan  et  la  prise  de  l'Empereur.  Je  rentre 
tard  a  Paris,  me  couche,  et  pars  de  tres  bonne  heure 
le  lendemain,  quoiqu'en  allant  a  la  gare,  j'avais  vu  la 
proclamation  des  ministres  de  l'Empereur;  mais  le  peu 
de  confiance  que  j'avais  et  que  Ton  renverserait  tout,  et 
ma  preoccupation  pour  le  depart  m'ont  empeche  de 
rester;  j'achete  le  Siecle,  je  le  mets  dans  ma  poche;  au 
bout  d'une  heure  je  le  lis  et  je  vois  les  paroles  de  Jules 
Favre  du  jour  precedent.  Alors  j'ai  regrete  mon  de- 
part, mais  je  me  disais  que  9a  ne  se  ferait  pas  si  vite; 
je  vais  a  Limoges  et  je  reviens  de  suite  avec  Lafont. 

94 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

J'apprends  que  la  Republique  s'est  faite  sans  coups; 
je  me  suis  de  suite  decide  a  revenir  a  Paris  et  m'en- 
gager.  Je  vais  voir  Lafont  le  lendemain.  II  me  dit 
qu'il  ne  peut  pas  venir  car  il  tire  au  sort  dans  quelques 
jours.  J'ai  reste  un  jour  de  plus.  Lafont  s'est  engage 
dans  une  compagnie  lOme  regiment  de  ligne.  Je  pars. 
En  approchant  Paris,  voila  des  femmes  qui  entrent 
dans  le  train,  pleurant,  sanglotant,  pour  leurs  maris  et 
fils  a  la  guerre.  Ceci  commence  a  me  faire  penser  a 
mon  chez  moi;  ma  mere  et  ma  longue  absence.  Ca 
m'embete!  En  arrivant  a  Paris  je  vois  des  bataillons 
qui  partent,  encore  les  memes  scenes  mais  plus  vio- 
lentes.  Tout  9a  ebranle  mes  bonnes  resolutions  quand, 
vlan!  je  recois  une  lettre  de  8  pages  de  ma  mere.  Elle 
etait  dans  une  douleur  effrayante;  elle  m'implorait  de 
ne  pas  me  meler  de  politique  et  de  revenir  n'importe 
comment  en  Amerique.  Toi,  qui  je  sais,  aimes  ta  mere 
et  qui  sais  comme  j'aime  la  mienne,  mets  toi  a  ma  place. 
Q'aurais  tu  fait?  Comme  moi  j'en  suis  certain.  Je 
sais  bien  que  le  devoir  pour  une  belle  cause  comme  celle- 
ci  devrait  passer  avant  l'amour  de  ses  parents.  Mais 
j'avoue  que  dans  ce  cas-ci  je  ne  suis  pas  comme  9a.  En- 
fin  je  reviens  a  Limoges,  mais  je  t'assure  que  je  ne 
m'amuse  guere;  mes  pensees  sont  tou jours  avec  toi  et 
je  maronne  de  penser  que  tu  es  la-bas  au  danger  et  moi 
ici  inactif.  Je  t'assure  que  je  voudrais  maintenant  ne 
pas  avoir  mes  parents  pour  que  je  ne  puisse  pas  avoir 
d'entraves  a  mes  principes.  Mais  vois  tu  c'est  dtir;  ils 
seraient  ici  que  je  n'hesiterai  pas.  Mes  parents  sont 
vieux,  ils  m'aiment  bien;  ils  ont  travaille  fort  toute  leur 

07 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

vie;  sont  pauvres  et  travaillent  tou jours  et  si  j'e'tais  en- 
leve!  Tu  ne  te  figure  pas  comme  9a  m'ennuie;  c'est 
un  tourment  continuel. 

Ton  ami,  Gus 

[translation] 
Bear  Alfred:  "Limoges,  September  21,  1870. 

Although  the  regular  postal  service  is  interrupted, 
I  hope  this  will  reach  you.  I  feel  persuaded  you  think 
me  a  coward,  and  I  don't  blame  you.  But  I  am  going 
to  explain  what  happened,  and  then  I  am  certain  you 
will  agree  that  I  was  justified  in  doing  what  I  did. 

On  the  third  of  September  I  was  at  Lieusaint,  and 
heard  nothing  of  the  defeat  of  Sedan  and  capture  of 
the  Emperor.  I  returned  to  Paris  very  late  and  went 
to  bed.  Early  the  next  morning  I  started  for  the  rail- 
way station,  and,  on  the  way,  saw  the  proclamation  of 
the  Emperor's  ministers;  but  my  lack  of  confidence  in 
their  ability  and  my  preoccupation  prevented  my  re- 
maining in  Paris.  The  "Siecle"  which  I  bought  I  put 
in  my  pocket.  About  an  hour  after,  I  took  it  out  and 
read  the  speech  made  by  Jules  Favre  the  day  before; 
and  then,  though  I  regretted  my  going  away,  I  said 
to  myself,  "There  is  no  hurry.  I  am  traveling  only  as 
far  as  Limoges  where  I  will  find  Lafond,  who  I  am 
sure  will  come  back  with  me  at  once."  On  my  arrival 
there  I  learned  that  the  Republic  was  proclaimed,  and 
that  settled  my  mind  to  revisit  Paris  and  to  volunteer. 
Soon  I  found  Lafond,  who  told  me  he  was  on  the  con- 
scription list  and  that  therefore  he  had  to  remain  where 

98 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

he  was.  The  next  day  he  was  drafted  into  the  10th 
Infantry,  and  I  returned  to  Paris  alone.  The  train 
was  filled  with  women  weeping  for  their  husbands  and 
sons  at  the  front,  which  made  me  think  of  home,  my 
mother,  and  the  years  of  absence,  all  of  which  sad- 
dened me.  On  reaching  Paris,  I  found  more  regi- 
ments leaving  and  more  scenes  of  misery  to  weaken  my 
resolution,  and  then,  to  cap  the  climax,  an  eight-page 
letter  from  my  mother  telling  of  her  state  of  mind  con- 
cerning me,  imploring  me  to  keep  out  of  political  af- 
fairs and  to  return  to  America  at  any  cost. 

I  know  you  love  your  mother,  and  you  realize  how 
much  I  think  of  mine.  What  would  you  have  done  in 
my  place?  You  would  have  done  as  I  did,  I  feel  sure. 
I  understand  that  one's  duty  to  a  great  cause  should  be 
paramount  to  the  love  one  bears  his  parents,  but  I  con- 
fess I  had  no  such  stern  resolve.  Once  more  I  am 
back  in  Limoges,  where  I  can  assure  you  I  am  not  at 
all  happy.  My  thoughts  are  continually  with  you  on 
the  field  of  danger,  while  regretting  my  inactivity  here. 
I  feel  now  that  I  would  rather  be  bereft  of  those  par- 
ents whose  existence  interferes  with  the  defense  of  my 
principles.     So  you  see  I  am  hard  pressed. 

If  they  were  only  here,  I  would  not  hesitate  a  mo- 
ment. But  they  are  getting  old,  and  love  me.  They 
have  worked  hard  all  their  lives,  are  poor,  and  are  still 
working.  What  would  happen  if  they  should  lose  me 
now?     You  can  imagine  what  a  miserable  state  of  mind 

I  am  in.  Your  friend, 

Gus. 

99 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

The  Reminiscences  continue  in  this  same  vein: 

Shortly  after  our  trip  through  the  Juras,  war  was 
declared.  In  common  with  most  Republican  sympa- 
thizers, I  felt  violent  antagonism  to  the  action  of  the 
French  Government.  I  believe  it  is  not  generally  ap- 
preciated that  the  Republican  party  opposed  the  war. 
Nothing  was  more  striking  to  me  than  to  see  the  Paris 
regiments  going  up  the  Boulevard  de  Strasbourg  to 
the  railroad  station,  straggling  along  apparently  in  con- 
fusion, followed  by  their  wives,  children  and  friends, 
while  many  of  the  men  shouted  "Vive  la  Paix!" 
Again  I  recall  watching  some  of  the  provincial  troups 
marching  to  the  same  stations  in  the  night,  but  in  more 
regular  order,  many  of  them  intoxicated,  singing  the 
Marseillaise.  As  they  filed  by  in  the  dark,  they  pro- 
duced upon  me  strongly  the  impression  of  sheep  being 
driven  to  the  shambles.  Indeed  so  vivid  was  their  mis- 
ery and  so  intense  the  pathos,  that,  in  my  sympathy,  I 
rushed  up  and  embraced  two  or  three  of  the  soldiers  as 
they  went  by. 

Before  this  I  had  fortunately  been  given  a  stone- 
cameo  portrait  to  do  for  which  I  was  to  be  paid  one 
hundred  dollars,  an  enormous  sum  to  me  at  that  time. 
The  lady  who  ordered  it,  a  widow  from  Canada,  de- 
parted suddenly  for  America  when  the  war  broke  out, 
and  I  sent  the  cameo  to  her  by  her  father.  Knowing 
therefore  that  I  was  to  have  this  money,  I  left  Paris  on 
the  fourth  of  September  for  Limoges,  where  my 
brother,  Andrew,  worked  in  the  employ  of  one  of  the 
New  York  porcelain  firms.    On  that  day  the  Republic 

100 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

was  declared  and  I  learned  of  it  when  I  arrived  at 
Limoges  at  night. 

Immediately  followed  Bismarck's  rejection  of  Jules 
Favre's  proclamation  that  the  Republican  party,  then 
in  power,  would  be  willing  to  stop  the  war  and  pay  an 
indemnity,  but  would  not  relinquish  a  stone  of  their 
fortresses  or  an  inch  of  their  territory.  This  brought 
the  Republicans  to  the  defense  of  their  country,  and  I 
started  back  to  Paris  to  join  either  the  active  army  or 
the  ambulance  corps.  On  arriving  there  I  found  a 
letter  from  my  mother  so  pathetic  that  my  courage 
failed,  and  I  decided  to  return  to  Limoges.  I  was  in 
Paris  long  enough,  however,  to  be  present  at  the 
entrance  into  the  city  of  the  troops  from  Brittany, 
marching  in  at  the  Porte  d'Orleans,  with  no  uniforms 
but  in  simple  blouses;  while  crowded  with  them,  in  ut- 
ter confusion  and  dust,  were  droves  of  sheep  and  cat- 
tle, being  led  to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  in  preparation 
for  the  coming  siege.  This  was  a  vision  of  war  that 
I  can  never  forget.  Another  spectacle  which  made  a 
profound  impression  on  me  was  that  of  the  defeated 
army  of  MacMahon,  which  had  been  hurried  into 
Paris,  bivouacking  on  the  magnificent  Avenue  de  la 
Grand  Armee,  the  troops  in  their  weathen-worn  uni- 
forms, the  camp  fires,  and  the  stacked  arms.  I  appre- 
ciate only  now  the  irony  of  these  defeated  legions  under 
the  shadow  of  the  great  Arch  erected  to  the  honor  of 
Napoleon's  victories. 

With  these  visions  I  left  Paris  and  returned  to  my 
brother  in  Limoges,  to  find  that  another  friend,  La- 

101 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

fond  by  name,  also  a  Republican,  had  enlisted  at  once 
on  the  change  of  the  Government.  He  had  a  most  ad- 
venturous career  within  the  next  twelve  months.  He 
was  sent  to  Bourbaki's  army,  was  in  the  flight  to 
Switzerland,  and  subsequently  enrolled  in  one  of 
Thier's  regiments  that  were  encircling  Paris  fighting 
the  Communists.  In  one  of  the  charges  of  his  regi- 
ment through  the  cemetery  of  Mont  Parnasse  towards 
the  Communists  on  the  other  side,  he  fell  directly  un- 
der the  opposing  wall  feigning  death,  while  his  regi- 
ment retired,  for  his  sympathies  being  with  the  Com- 
munists he  wished  to  join  them.  The  Communists, 
coming  out,  took  him  and  were  for  shooting  him,  drag- 
ging him  along  the  streets  as  a  spy.  Were  it  not  that 
they  met  an  old  flame  of  his,  who  recognized  him  and 
assured  his  captors  of  his  sincerity,  he  would  not  have 
escaped  death.  Then  he  fought  with  the  Communists 
against  the  Versaillais  and  later  was  taken  prisoner  by 
them.  He  told  me  that  the  greatest  fear  he  experi- 
enced in  all  his  adventures  was  that  which  occurred 
when  he  and  all  his  fellow-prisoners  were  formed  in 
line  and  the  commanding  officer  walked  by,  picking  out 
those  who  were  to  be  immediately  marched  off  and 
shot.  The  moment  of  the  Colonel's  looking  him  in  the 
eye  was  one  of  awful  terror.  His  refined  and  gentle 
look  no  doubt  protected  him. 

After  remaining  in  Limoges  for  three  or  four  months 
I  borrowed  one  hundred  francs  from  my  brother  and 
started  for  Rome,  as  I  knew  that  there  I  would  find  an 
Italian  friend  and,  very  probably,  work.     It  was  mis- 

102 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

erable  November  weather.  I  crossed  France  to  Ly- 
ons, in  the  hope  of  taking  a  steamer  which  I  was  told 
descended  the  Rhone  to  Avignon,  near  Marseilles,  at 
a  very  reduced  price.  But  at  Lyons  I  found  the  serv- 
ice stopped,  so  I  had  to  go  down  in  the  cars.  While 
loitering  at  the  station,  it  was  queer  to  see  some  twenty 
or  thirty  Prussian  prisoners  awaiting  a  train,  calmly 
lounging  about,  smoking  their  peaceful,  family-look- 
ing porcelain  pipes. 

At  Marseilles  I  just  missed  a  boat  that  went  to 
Civita  Vecchia,  the  point  of  landing  for  Rome;  conse- 
quently I  had  to  wait  three  days  more.  I  was  not  the 
most  respectable  object  in  the  world,  and  so,  as  I  was 
followed  once  or  twice  during  the  first  day  by  other  sus- 
picious-looking individuals,  through  fear  I  determined 
to  pass  my  time  away  from  the  city.  This  I  did  by  go- 
ing to  the  hill  called  Notre  Dame  de  Bonne  Garde,  from 
which  there  was  a  marvelous  view  of  Marseilles,  the 
Mediterranean,  and  the  coast. 

During  all  this  time,  in  fact  during  the  whole  trip 
from  Limoges,  I  lived  on  figs  and  chocolate  and  pieces 
of  an  extraordinary  pate,  given  me  by  the  big,  fat, 
whole-hearted  wife  of  the  owner  of  the  pension  where 
my  brother  lodged.  So  by  the  time  I  boarded  the  lit- 
tle steamer  for  Civita  Vecchia,  my  stomach  was  not  in 
a  condition  to  be  tossed  about.  My  other  possession 
beside  this  pate  was  the  box  containing  my  cameo-cut- 
ter's lathe,  to  which  I  clung  during  the  forty  or  fifty 
hours  that  the  journey  between  Marseilles  and  Civita 
Vecchia  lasted.     I  suffered  the  tortures  of  the  damned, 

103 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

rolling  round  the  deck  in  misery  and  in  my  more  lucid 
intervals  catching  glimpses  of  the  sailors  seated  before 
my  pate,  which  they,  no  doubt,  seeing  that  I  was  un- 
able to  appreciate,  concluded  to  dispose  of  themselves. 

In  contrast  to  this,  the  trip  to  Rome  from  Civita 
Vecchia,  when  the  cars  rolled  through  the  soft  air  of 
the  Campagna,  seemed  like  the  entrance  into  Para- 
dise. I  arrived  there  at  night  and  called  immediately 
on  my  friend,  who  they  told  me  was  in  an  adjoining 
house.  There  I  found  him  paying  court  to  the  most 
beautiful  creature  in  the  world.  I  slept  in  his  room, 
and  the  following  morning  I  awoke  to  the  blessed 
charm  of  Rome. 

The  fascination  of  the  Holy  City,  as  I  stepped  into 
the  street  the  first  time  that  morning,  can  only  be  ap- 
preciated by  those  who  have  lived  there.  Coming  so 
soon  after  the  misery  of  the  gray,  bleak  weather  of 
France,  the  war  and  its  disaster,  and  the  terrible  Med- 
iterranean trip,  it  seemed  all  the  more  exalting.  As 
I  turned  the  corner  from  the  Via  Sistina  where  my 
friend  lived  and  looked  up  the  Via  Porte  Pinciana,  the 
first  view  of  a  stone-pine  at  the  head  of  the  street  ap- 
peared incomparably  beautiful  in  the  gentle  welcome 
which  seemed  to  pervade  it  all.  It  was  as  if  a  door 
had  been  thrown  wide  open  to  the  eternal  beauty  of  the 
classical.  Therefore  though  one  phase  of  my  life  in 
Paris  was  repeated  while  I  was  in  Rome,  my  enthusi- 
asm for  my  work  making  me  neglect  the  earning  of 
pennies  to  such  an  extent  that  I  was  down  at  the  heel 
most  of  the  time,  a  greater  appreciation  of  surround- 

104 


a i 'ci  si  i  s  sain ;t-<;.\i  dkns 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

ing  nature  than  that  which  existed  in  France  came 
over  me,  and  the  classic  charm  of  the  Campagna,  of  the 
Sabine  Mountains,  of  Tivoli,  Albano,  and  Frascati 
were  by  no  means  lost  on  me  during  my  frequent  Sun- 
day trips  to  these  places. 

Shortly  after  my  arrival  in  Rome  also  I  wit- 
nessed one  of  those  scenes  which  it  seems  to  me  are 
possible  only  in  Italy,  for  that  country  has  an  extraor- 
dinary gift  for  public  celebrations  which  always 
shows  itself  in  a  surprising  measure.  King  Victor 
Emmanuel's  formal  entrance  into  the  city  was  the 
event  in  the  history  of  Italy  at  the  time,  and  the  popu- 
lation meant  that  it  should  be  memorable.  The  pal- 
aces and  houses  on  each  side  of  the  Corso,  which  was 
crowded  with  people,  were  made  alive  and  gorgeous 
with  all  manner  of  rugs,  flags,  flowers  and  garlands. 
Along  its  narrow  sidewalks,  from  the  railroad  station 
at  one  end  of  the  route  to  the  palace  of  the  Quirinal  at 
the  other,  soldiers  stood  within  a  foot  or  two  of  one 
another.  After  the  usual  wait  that  seems  inevitable  in 
all  affairs  of  this  kind,  I  became  conscious  of  a  con- 
fused sound  in  the  distance  which  increased  gradually 
to  a  roar.  Up  the  street  there  seemed  to  be  a  cloud 
approaching  us  with  increasing  rush  of  noise.  As  it 
drew  near  it  was  seen  to  be  a  tremendous  storm  of 
flowers.  Then  came  a  bewildering  instant  of  wild  en- 
thusiasm from  the  people  as  the  king  was  driven  past 
at  a  very  high  speed,  preceded  and  followed  by  a  crowd 
of  dragoons.  As  he  flew  by  we  found  ourselves  in  the 
height  of  the  noise  and  confusion  and  the  flowers.     But 

107 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

in  a  moment  the  storm  disappeared  down  the  street 
like  a  tornado  diminishing  in  the  distance.  Such  was 
his  entry,  and  the  haste  no  doubt  was  a  wise  precaution 
against  possible  bombs. 

To  fall  back  once  more  upon  the  prosaic  things  in 
life,  however ;  through  my  friend  whom  I  visited  on  com- 
ing to  Rome  I  immediately  obtained  cameos  to  do  for  a 
dealer,  Rossi  by  name,  a  man  with  a  big  red  beard,  who 
lived  on  the  Via  Margutta.  He  paid  what  seemed  to 
me  large  prices,  and  I  set  about  to  find  a  studio  in 
which  to  model  my  first  statue,  which  was  to  astonish 
the  world.  Truman  Bartlett,  whose  place  I  have  said  I 
occupied  for  a  short  time  in  Paris,  informed  me  that,  if  I 
would  delay  a  little,  there  was  an  American  dying  near 
by  who  had  precisely  what  I  wished,  with  a  studio  ad- 
joining, and  that  it  would  not  be  long  before  I  could 
obtain  possession.  While  awaiting  the  event,  another 
friend  came  to  me  saying  that  he  knew  this  very  sick 
American,  whom  it  would  be  a  kindness  to  visit.  He 
had  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis.  So  I  was  told  that,  al- 
though his  speech  was  incoherent,  it  would  be  well  to 
pretend  to  understand  him  and  to  cheer  him  up. 
When  I  called,  I  found  a  living  dead  man  on  a  low 
cot  in  a  little  room.  But  he  needed  no  cheering  up, 
for,  notwithstanding  the  incoherency  of  his  language, 
he  seemed  perfectly  happy  and  contented,  nailed  to 
his  bed  as  he  was.  I  went  frequently  to  see  him  after 
that.  We  became  fast  friends.  This  was  thirty-six 
years  ago  and  still  he  is  alive,  as  sound  as  a  drum,  as 
lively  as  a  cricket,  and  likely  far  to  outlive  those  of  us 

108 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

who  expected  to  attend  his  funeral  and  to  occupy  his 
studio  in  Rome.  I  speak  of  Mr.  William  Gedney 
Bunce,  the  artist  who  has  painted  such  beautiful  vi- 
sions of  Venice. 

In  Rome,  too,  I  met  one  day  another  of  my  Paris 
friends  who  had  come  there  to  escape  the  war:  Soares, 
"Heart  of  Gold"  as  Bion  called  him.  He  was  a  Fine 
Arts  pensioner  of  the  Portuguese  Government.  We 
took  a  studio  together,  and  in  it  I  set  up  the  figure  that 
should  open  people's  eyes.  He  also  began  one,  which 
represented  "The  Exile,"  the  hero  of  a  poem  by  Camo- 
ens,  written  while  he,  Camoens,  was  in  banishment. 
This  figure  with  its  melancholy  was  in  complete  accord 
with  Soares'  own  nature,  and  a  beautiful  work  he  made. 
A  big  sheet  hung  across  the  studio,  separating  us.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  sheet  I  began  the  statue  of  Hia- 
watha, "pondering,  musing  in  the  forest,  on  the  welfare 
of  his  people,"  and  so  on.  This  accorded  with  the  pro- 
found state  of  my  mind,  pondering,  musing  on  my  own 
ponderous  thoughts  and  ponderous  efforts.  Soares' 
was  really  a  noble  nature.  No  breath  of  quarrel  ever 
came  between  us,  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal,  con- 
sidering my  ever-read iness  for  one.  His  utmost  protest 
was  an  occasional  "Ouf"  which  he  uttered,  when,  follow- 
ing the  habit  of  my  masters  in  New  York  and  my  own 
renown  in  Paris,  I  began  bawling  the  moment  I  entered 
the  studio,  never  to  stop  until  I  left  it  at  one  o'clock  to 
go  to  my  bread-winning  cameos.  He  told  me  that  I 
sang  precisely  like  a  hand-organ,  that  I  had  a  regular 
routine  of  songs,  one  following  the  other  until  the  list 

109 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

was  exhausted.  Some  of  these  songs  were  interesting 
because  they  dated  from  a  generation  much  earlier  than 
those  that  the  young  people  of  my  period  were  familiar 
with.  And  to  the  boys  in  the  Beaux  Arts  in  Paris,  it 
seemed  more  than  strange  to  have  this  "pasteboard 
American,"  as  they  called  me,  sing  to  them  French 
songs  of  which  they  knew  nothing.  These  songs  I  had 
taken  from  Avet  and  LeBrethon  who  had  learned  them 
in  their  youth.  They  were  popular  between  1830  and 
1850  and  had  gone  entirely  out  of  date. 

Moreover,  to  try  my  friend's  patience  even  further,  I 
accepted  from  Mercie,  upon  his  moving  to  Naples,  a 
great  Italian  greyhound,  an  animal  so  wild  that  it  cur- 
tailed our  liberty  to  a  large  extent.  It  was  the  painter 
Regnault's  dog,  who  had  left  it  with  Mercie  when  he 
started  to  join  the  army  in  Paris,  where  he  was  one  of 
the  last  men  to  be  shot  in  one  of  the  last  engagements 
with  the  Prussians.  He  had  an  extraordinary  talent 
and  was  most  popular.  That  he  should  be  selected  for 
death  was  miserable  business.  Indeed,  he  was  so  much 
the  great  man  of  the  time  that  it  was  an  honor  to  be  asso- 
ciated with  him  in  any  way,  even  to  the  keeping  of  his 
dog. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this,  that  is  to  say  in  1872,  occurred 
the  great  eruption  of  Vesuvius.  So  with  a  hilarious 
band  of  comrades  I  took  a  train  one  fine  morning  to 
see  the  stupendous  spectacle.  As  we  went  South,  the 
day  grew  grayer  and  we  grew  happier  and  happier, 
Soares,  in  his  delight,  devouring  large  quantities  of 
Gruyere  cheese,  forgetting  that  the  mere  sight  of  it  had 

110 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

hitherto  always  made  him  sick.  Oh,  mental  science! 
Then  the  sky  became  more  and  more  leaden  in  tone,  and 
at  first  we  concluded  we  were  in  for  one  of  those  sirocco 
days  which  occur  in  Italy  and  which  scorch  everything. 
The  heat  did  not  increase,  however,  although  the  sur- 
rounding country  took  on  a  weird  appearance,  until 
when  we  were  about  midway  between  Rome  and  Naples, 
we  saw  that  the  foliage  of  the  trees  had  become  grayish. 
A  little  later  it  appeared  ashy,  the  roads  turned  from 
yellow  to  gray,  and  where  cart  wheels  passed  over  them 
they  left  a  light  track  as  they  lifted  the  dust  which 
proved  to  be  the  cinders  of  Vesuvius  blown  north. 
This  continued  with  increasing  intensity  until  our  ar- 
rival at  Naples. 

Naples  itself  seemed  in  the  midst  of  a  driving  storm, 
the  mountain  being  visible  only  in  the  rifts  of  the 
smoke  and  cinders.  We  walked  to  the  hotel  in  the 
midst  of  the  shower,  many  of  the  population  under  um- 
brellas, and  on  arriving  collected  enough  of  the  cinders 
off  the  rims  of  our  hats  to  fill  a  wine-glass.  In  the 
evening  we  went  down  to  the  Quay  and  looked  across 
the  bay  to  the  mountain,  where  we  could  see  the  oc- 
casional discharges  of  flame  and  hear  the  constant  un- 
derground rumble  as  of  thunder  in  the  distance.  I 
should  be  very  much  more  impressed  by  it  now  than  I 
was  in  those  light-hearted,  empty-headed  years,  for 
that  night  our  chief  interest  lay  in  hiding  a  musket  that 
we  found  in  our  room  in  the  boarding-house  and  a 
cavalry  sabre  between  the  sheets  of  Soares'  bed.  His 
exclamation  upon  touching  the  cold  metal,   and  his 

111 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

anger  and  difficulty  in  getting  them  out,  gave  us  dia- 
bolical pleasure. 

That  night  I  was  awakened  by  a  dream  in  which  I 
felt  that  the  whole  house  was  moving  and  swaying.  It 
was  actually  doing  so,  and  our  Italian  hosts  had  rushed 
into  the  street.  We,  however,  in  our  indifference  and 
fatigue,  turned  over  and  fell  asleep  again. 

The  next  morning  we  made  preparations  to  go  up  as 
near  the  cone  as  we  could  get  a  man  to  take  us.  We 
set  out  boldly  on  this  adventure.  But  we  had  not  ad- 
vanced any  great  distance  before  the  increase  of  the 
gloom  and  the  terrifying  noises  so  alarmed  our  guide 
that  he  refused  to  proceed  further. 

Then  we  returned  to  Rome  and  I  resumed  my  la- 
bors on  Hiawatha,  soon  to  find  that  I  had  nearly  com- 
pleted the  statue.  I  was  in  much  distress  of  mind  as  to 
how  I  could  get  the  money  to  cast  the  figure  in  plaster, 
however,  when  by  a  lucky  chance  I  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  young  theologian,  Mr.  Nevins,  afterwards  Dr. 
Nevins,  then  interested  in  the  establishment  of  the 
Young  Men's  Christian  Association  in  Rome.  I  was 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to  be  associated  with  such 
an  organization,  yet  our  similar  nationality  and  his 
kindness  of  spirit  drew  me  to  him  until  he  persuaded  me 
to  go  to  the  rooms.  The  result  was  that  shortly  after 
this  he  brought  to  my  studio,  during  my  absence,  Mr. 
Montgomery  Gibbs,  who,  with  his  wife  and  two  daugh- 
ters, both  young  and  attractive,  lived  at  the  Hotel  Con- 
stanzi  on  the  Via  San  Nicola  da  Tolentino,  opposite  the 
lovely  spot  where  we  had  our  studio.     Upon  inquiry 

112 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

into  the  condition  of  my  exchequer  and  my  prospects 
generally,  he  told  Soares  that  he  thought  he  would  ad- 
vance me  the  money  to  cast  my  figure  of  Hiawatha,  and 
that  in  return  I  might  model  the  portraits  of  his  two 
daughters.  I  recall  distinctly  the  bright  afternoon 
when  Soares  rushed  out  to  tell  me  of  a  rich  American 
who  had  been  to  the  studio,  who  wished  to  see  me,  and 
who  proposed  helping  me,  if  I  could  be  helped.  This 
was  one  of  the  happiest  moments  in  my  life,  for  I  had 
been  certain  that,  if  I  could  ever  get  my  wonderful  pro- 
duction before  the  American  public,  I  would  amaze  the 
world  and  settle  my  future.  Here  was  the  opportunity 
in  my  grasp. 

I  immediately  began  my  busts  of  the  young  ladies. 
Whereupon,  to  add  to  my  delight,  the  Gibbs  family, 
who  Were  on  intimate  terms  with  Senator  William  M. 
Evarts,  one  day  brought  to  my  studio  Miss  Hettie 
Evarts,  now  Mrs.  Charles  C.  Beaman,  with  the  result 
that  I  received,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  my  first  commis- 
sion for  copies  of  the  busts  of  Demosthenes  and  Cicero, 
which  it  was  then  the  fashion  for  tourists  to  have  made 
by  the  sculptors  in  Rome.  At  the  same  date  Mr.  Gibbs 
induced  Mr.  Evarts,  sitting  in  Geneva  at  the  Alabama 
Arbitration  Tribunal,  to  consent  to  pose  for  his  head  on 
his  return  to  America. 

Those,  therefore,  were  days  of  great  joy  as  well  as 
of  great  misery,  for  mixed  with  the  pleasure  of  a  cer- 
tain future  was  the  unhappiness  I  suffered  from  Roman 
fever  and  the  incessant  dunning  of  the  restaurant  man 
who  had  been  confident  enough  to  trust  me  to  the  ex- 

113 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

tent  of  a  thousand  lire,  an  enormous  sum  at  that  time 
and  under  those  conditions. 

The  restaurant  was  a  remarkable  place.  The  pro- 
prietor was  a  fat  man  with  an  equally  fat  wife,  both  of 
them  monstrously  dirty  and  greasy.  We  dubbed  him 
"The  Hippopotamus,"  and  by  this  name  the  restaurant 
remained  known.  To  it  came  many  of  the  men  who 
have  since  become  distinguished — Merson,  Blanc,  Mer- 
cie,  Carolus  Duran,  and  others  of  similar  strength. 
The  place  was  indescribably  dirty,  but  extraordinarily 
picturesque.  Not  only  "The  Hippopotamus"  but  the 
son  helped  at  the  table.  He  was  long,  lank,  and  loose, 
and  was  called  "The  Kangaroo."  Which  of  the  three 
members  of  the  family  was  the  least  clean  is  a  point  still 
unsettled. 

Indeed,  at  this  restaurant  and  at  the  Cafe  Greco  on 
the  Via  Condotti,  many  of  the  artists  of  other  countries 
and  of  my  generation  assembled  at  night  for  the  inevi- 
table little  cup  of  black  coffee.  The  Cafe  Greco,  I 
believe,  dates  back  before  the  days  of  Byron  and 
Thackeray,  and  still  remained  in  existence  when  I  re- 
turned to  Rome  five  years  ago. 

It  was  in  such  surroundings  that  I  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  my  great  comrade,  Dr.  Henry  Shiff, 
whose  friendship  has  continued  until  this  day.  I  sup- 
pose that,  on  the  whole,  he  exerted  a  more  powerful  in- 
fluence in  forming  what  little  character  I  have  than 
any  other  man  I  have  ever  met.  He  was  born  in  New 
Orleans,  his  father  a  Hebrew  and  his  mother  a  Catho- 
lic.    He  was  educated  in  France,  served  as  a  surgeon 

114 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

in  the  Confederate  Army  during  the  Civil  War,  came 
to  New  York,  where  he  practised  a  short  while,  and 
then  retired  to  Rome. 

However,  this  form  of  life  soon  ended,  as  Mr.  Gibbs, 
seeing  how  I  was  held  down  by  Roman  fever  and  realiz- 
ing that  I  had  been  five  years  away  from  home,  very 
kindly  offered  to  advance  me  passage  money  with 
which  I  might  go  to  America  and  return,  after  visiting 
my  parents.  My  departure  was  far  from  serene.  "The 
Hippopotamus"  getting  wind  of  it,  awaited  me  at 
the  station,  to  prevent  my  leaving  until  my  debt  had 
been  paid.  He  was  perfectly  right.  But  a  voluble 
mutual  friend  assured  him  that  by  stopping  me  they 
were  preventing  the  means  of  my  paying  them. 

On  my  way  north  it  was  strange  to  go  through  Paris 
and  see  the  traces  of  the  awful  combats  of  the  Com- 
mune. On  all  the  principal  streets,  houses  could  be 
found  with  pieces  knocked  off  by  musket  bullets  and 
cannon  balls,  the  Montparnasse  Railway  Station  being 
covered  with  these  dents,  while  the  iron  shutters  of 
some  of  the  great  department  stores  and  barracks  down 
near  the  large  square  called  the  Chateau  d'Eaux  were 
literally  so  filled  with  bullet  holes  that  they  resembled 
sieves. 

I  remained  in  Paris  but  a  day  or  two,  stopping  as 
well  in  London,  on  my  way  to  Liverpool,  to  see  my 
English  friend  of  the  lion-hunting  ambitions,  who  had 
been  reinstated  in  his  father's  good  graces.  After  his 
refusal  to  enter  the  French  Army  in  time  of  peace  he 
had  shown  the  stuff  he  was  made  of,  when  the  republic 

117 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

was  declared,  by  volunteering  in  a  Zouave  regiment 
which  was  well  known  for  being  always  in  the  thick  of 
things. 

At  Liverpool  I  took  the  steamer  for  America.  The 
ship  sailed  by  the  coast  of  Ireland  in  very  rough 
weather,  so  near  that  we  could  see  the  breakers.  At 
the  time  I  was  especially  struck  by  the  fact  that  the 
man  on  the  bridge,  either  the  captain  or  some  other 
high  officer,  had  been  indulging  in  too  much  of  the  cup 
that  cheers.  This  did  not  lead  to  my  unalloyed  confi- 
dence. I  reached  home  safely,  however,  to  the  sur- 
prised delight  of  my  family.  For,  as  I  was  a  very  bad 
correspondent  and  wrote  to  my  parents  only  on  rare  oc- 
casions, I  had  given  them  no  idea  of  my  project,  and 
marched  into  Father's  store  quite  without  warning. 

This  account  by  Saint-Gaudens  of  his  vital  struggles  in 
Rome  needs  somewhat  of  an  afterword,  for  the  period,  and 
especially  the  meeting  with  the  Gibbs  family,  was  far  too  im- 
portant a  step  in  his  development  to  be  passed  over  without 
comment.  Therefore  I  will  turn  first  to  a  letter  which  Saint- 
Gaudens  sent  to  M.  Gamier  from  Rome  on  March  21,  1871. 
He  writes: 

Rome,  March  21,  1871. 
Mon  cher  Alfred: 

.  .  .  Je  ne  veux  pas  parler  de  cette  guerre.  C'est 
trop  triste  et  je  reserve  de  t'en  causer  pour  quand  je  te 
reverrai;  mais  toi,  donne  moi  quelques  petits  details 
seulement.  Tu  ne  te  figure  pas  avec  quelle  avidite  je 
lirais  la  moindre  chose  qui  ait  pu  vous  arriver.     Vous  en 

118 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

avez  vu  de  dures,  et  pendant  que  moi  j'etais  sain  et  sauf 
loin  de  tout  danger.  Vous  me  faites  envie  je  vous 
assure.  Quand  a  moi  je  n'ai  qu'a  me  r6jouir  de  ma 
situation  pecuniaire. 

Je  gagne  beaucoup  d'argent  et  je  vais  pouvoir  faire 
la  figure  que  je  commencerai  cette  semaine,  non  seule- 
ment  en  platre,  mais  en  marbre.  lis  payent  les  camees 
ici  bien  plus  qu'a  Paris.  lis  sont  bien  moins  exigeant. 
La  vie  et  meilleure  marche,  les  modeles  moitie  moins 
cheres  qu'a  Paris;  atelier,  etc.,  de  memes.  En  plus  je 
commence  a  avoir  des  relations  avec  de  riches  Ameri- 
cains  et  des  camees  a  faire  pour  eux  exessivement  bien 
payes.  La  sante  va  tres  bien  et  nous  faisont  des  prome- 
nades magnifiques.  Soares,  Simoes,  Pablo,  Defelice 
et  moi  nous  faisons  des  grandes  marches  ou  nous  depen- 
sons  tres  peu  et  ou  nous  nous  amusons  beaucoup! 

Le  bon  jour  aux  camarades  aussi  si  tu  en  vois!  Je 
te  donne  une  bonne  poignee  de  main. 

Ton  ami, 

Gus. 
[translation] 
Dear  Alfred: 

.  .  .  I  don't  want  to  speak  to  you  about  this  war. 
It  is  too  sad,  so  I  will  refrain  from  mentioning  it  until 
we  see  each  other  again.  Instead  I  will  ask  you  to 
give  me  some  small  details  about  yourself.  You  don't 
know  with  what  avidity  I  would  read  about  the  slight- 
est things  which  might  happen  to  you.  You  must  have 
seen  some  terrible  times  while  I  have  been  safe  and 
sound,  far  from  all  danger.    I  envy  you,  I  assure  you. 

119 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Personally  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  congratulate 
myself  on  my  pecuniary  situation. 

I  am  making  a  lot  of  money  and  will  be  able  to  com- 
plete my  statue,  which  I  will  begin  next  week,  not  only 
in  plaster,  but  in  marble.  The  cameos  are  better  paid 
here  than  at  Paris.  The  jewelers  are  less  exacting. 
Living  is  very  much  cheaper  and  models  are  only  half 
as  dear  as  in  Paris.  Rents,  etc.,  are  equally  cheap. 
More  than  this,  I  am  beginning  to  get  into  relations 
with  rich  Americans,  and  the  cameos  I  make  for  them 
are  extraordinarily  well  paid.  My  health  is  excellent 
and  we  have  magnificent  walks  together.  Soares,  Sim- 
oes,  Pablo,  Defelice  and  I  take  great  tramps  which  cost 
us  very  little,  and  upon  which  we  enjoy  ourselves 
hugely.     .     .     . 

Remember  me  to  all  the  comrades  also  whenever  you 
see  them.  With  a  good  hand  clasp  I  remain  your 
friend 

Gus. 

Again  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  optimism  expressed 
here  and  in  the  reminiscences  resulted  from  a  frame  of  mind 
rather  than  from  truly  fortunate  conditions.  For  instance, 
all  Saint-Gaudens'  oldest  friends  will  testify  that  in  those  days 
he  was  often  seriously  ill  with  Roman  fever,  a  fact  that  he 
barely  touches  upon;  while,  to  give  a  more  concrete  example 
of  his  characteristic  despising  of  difficulties,  I  will  quote  di- 
rectly from  a  letter  written  by  Mrs.  John  Merrylees,  then 
Miss  Belle  Gibbs.     She  says: 

"Mr.  Gibbs  asked  a  few  ladies  about  having  a  cameo  cut  of 
Mary  Stuart.  They  told  him  of  a  young  American  who  had 
designed  some  for  them  and  who  greatly  needed  work,  and 

120 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

they  gave  his  address  to  Mr.  Gibbs.  It  was  the  address  of 
Augustus  Saint-Gaudens'  studio.  Upon  going  there,  Mr.  Gibbs 
found  only  a  little  boy,  who  told  him  that  his  master  was  very 
ill,  but  that  he  had  taken  care  of  'the  model'  and  had  kept  it 
wet.  He  then  undid  the  wrapping  from  the  clay  figure  of 
Hiawatha,  which  so  impressed  Mr.  Gibbs  that  he  hastened  to 
discover  the  sculptor.  He  found  him  dangerously  ill  in  a  low 
attic,  and  immediately  had  him  removed  to  better  quarters  and 
nursed.  On  his  recovery,  Mr.  Gibbs  undertook  to  support 
him  while  he  finished  the  Hiawatha,  and  to  obtain  an  order  for 
a  bust  from  his  friend,  Senator  William  M.  Evarts.  .  . 
Mr.  Saint-Gaudens  cut  the  cameo  before  anything  else,  as  he 
said  that  the  search  for  a  cameo-cutter  had  brought  him  his 
friend,  and  so  Mr.  Gibbs'  wish  for  a  Mary  Stuart  must  be  ful- 
filled." 

This  assistance  rendered  by  Mr.  Gibbs  was  both  real  and 
generous.  Moreover,  it  lifted  my  father  over  obstacles  then 
otherwise  unsurmountable.  There  is  no  telling  what  his  future 
might  have  been  without  this  cordial  hand  in  aid.  Mr.  Gibbs 
himself  well  expressed  his  attitude  in  a  letter  to  my  father  in 
which  he  wrote:  "I  am  sure  that  the  last  thing  of  which  I 
stand  in  need  is  a  marble  statue,  particularly  one  of  the  dimen- 
sions of  your  'Hiawatha.'  But  for  the  fact  that  I  sympathize 
very  strongly  with  you  in  your  struggles  to  maintain  yourself 
here  until  your  genius  and  labors  shall  have  met  the  reward 
to  which  I  feel  they  are  entitled,  I  would  not  have  thought  of 
attempting  any  arrangement  by  which  you  might  be  enabled 
to  complete  your  large  work  and  make  yourself  known."  Then 
he  went  on  to  explain  his  promptly-accepted  plan  by  which  he 
was  to  pay  the  expense  of  the  completion  of  the  statue,  move 
it  to  America,  exhibit  it  as  his  own,  sell  it  if  possible,  refund 
the  loan  to  himself,  and  present  the  young  sculptor  with  the 
remainder  of  the  profits. 

It  is  good  to  know  that  the  "Hiawatha"  proved  worthy  of  the 
money  so  invested.     The  statue  ultimately  became  the  prop- 

121 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

erty  of  Mr.  E.  D.  Morgan,  and  now  stands  in  Hilton  Park, 
Saratoga,  New  York. 

It  is  even  more  pleasant  to  realize  that  Mr.  Gibbs  lived  to  see 
the  young  artist  he  assisted  succeed  to  the  full  extent  of  all 
his  anticipations  and  yet  to  retain  an  undiminished  gratitude 
for  the  kindness  accorded  him.  Indeed  the  whole  acquaintance 
was  a  memorable  and  charming  one  for  my  father.  Not  only 
did  he  obtain  the  aid  and  commissions  mentioned  in  the  remi- 
niscences, but,  in  addition,  through  Mr.  Gibbs,  while  in  Rome 
he  came  into  the  way  of  meeting  Miss  Augusta  F.  Homer,  to 
whom  later  he  was  married,  as  well  as  others  who  proved 
staunch  in  friendship  and  assistance  during  his  American 
struggles.  Here,  to  conclude,  are  portions  of  a  letter  from  my 
father  to  Mr.  Gibbs  which  shows  the  young  sculptor's  frank  re- 
lations with  his  patron. 

Rome,  May,  1872. 
My  Dear  Mr.  Gibbs; 

.  .  .  I  have  been  thinking  very  seriously  for  the 
last  few  days  in  regard  to  the  making  of  the  "Hiawatha" 
in  bronze.  .  .  .  My  figure,  if  reproduced,  will  not 
improve  so  much  in  bronze  as  it  will  in  marble  for  the 
reason  that  to  have  it  in  bronze  the  clay  has  to  be  ex- 
cessively finished,  which  would  take  a  great  deal  more 
time.  .  .  .  Also,  as  the  figure  was  originally  in- 
tended for  the  marble,  certain  forms  and  arrangements 
were  made  so  that  they  would  acquire  certain  effects  in 
the  marble  which  would  be  quite  lost  on  the  bronze. 
.  .  .  There  is  the  other  reason,  that  the  marble  will 
no  doubt  be  much  cheaper,  and  also,  as  you  have  the  in- 
tention of  getting  it  in  the  Art  Museum  in  New  York, 

122 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

which  I  would  desire  a  great  deal,  the  marble  would 
certainly  be  far  preferable.  ...  I  am  certain  that 
if  you  see  it  reproduced  in  that  substance  you  will  not 
regret  it.     .     .     . 

In  regard  to  Mr.  Evart's  bust,  I  should  prefer  to  do 
it  on  my  return  here,  only  I  dread  the  waiting.  May 
he  not  change  his  mind?  If  you  think  he  will  not,  why 
I  shall  wait,  but  if  the  contrary,  I  shall  do  it  now. 
About  the  twentieth  of  this  month  I  shall  send  him  the 
Cicero  that  I  am  now  making.  It  is  smaller  than  its 
companion  head,  the  Demosthenes.  I  have  had  it  cut 
so  on  mature  reflection,  as  I  think  it  much  better  to 
have  the  authentic  size  of  both.  I  do  not  believe  it 
right  to  sacrifice  to  uniformity  the  correctness  and 
truthfulness  to  the  original. 

Miss  Belle's  bust  will  be  finished  in  two  or  three 
days  and  I  am  highly  satisfied.  I  cannot  say  the  same 
though  of  Miss  Florence's  bust.  It  has  been  quite  un- 
fortunate. After  having  the  rest  of  the  bust  roughed 
out  and  commencing  to  work  on  the  features,  a  spot  in 
the  marble  appeared  over  the  left  eye,  so  of  course  the 
cutting  could  not  go  on.  I  have  been  obliged  to  buy 
another  piece,  this  time  not  so  cheaply.  It  cost  fifty 
francs.  I  have  had  it  commenced  immediately  and  now 
I  am  sure  we  shall  not  be  so  unfortunate.  The  misfor- 
tune takes  back  the  economies  I  had  made  on  the  first 
two  pieces,  because  to  the  sum  must  be  added  the  forty 
francs  for  what  work  the  bufFator  had  done  on  it.  This 
of  course  makes  it  impossible  to  have  it  finished  for  my 
departure.     The  features  will  be  finished,  but  the  hair 

123 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

and  the  accessories  will  take  some  time  after  my  de- 
parture. 

Yours  very  truly, 

Aug.  St.  Gaudens. 

With  such  cordial  assistance,  then,  Saint-Gaudens'  Roman 
work  went  forward  until  he  started  upon  his  first  return  to 
America.  Yet  I  must  not  close  this  chapter  without  a  word 
more  as  to  my  father's  old  friend,  Dr.  Henry  Shiff. 

Dr.  Shiff  was  considerably  the  senior  of  the  two,  a  man 
with  a  clear  analytical  brain,  of  immense  literary  acquirement, 
and  a  dilettante  in  art.  He  never  returned  to  this  country 
during  his  later  years,  but  lived  in  Italy,  Spain,  or  Paris.  He 
long  made  a  hobby  of  Japanese  and  Chinese  bronzes,  especially 
of  toads  and  frogs,  which  explains,  to  a  certain  extent,  the 
peculiar  inscription  on  the  bas-relief  which  my  father  mod- 
eled of  him  a  few  years  after  their  meeting.  This  inscription 
reads : — 

ALL'  AMICONE  DOTTORE  HENRY  SHIFF  AETATIS 
XXXXVIL  DEI  ROSPI  DI  ROMA  E  DEI  PUZZI  RO- 
MANI  AMANTE.  DI  FILOSOFIA  E  DI  BELLE  ARTI 
DILETTANTE.  DEL  TIPO  GATTESCO  INAMORATO: 
IN  PARIGI  NEL  MESE  DI  MAGGIO  DELL'  ANNO 
MDCCCLXXX.  (To  the  dear  friend  Doctor  Henry  ShifF  at 
the  age  of  forty-seven.  Lover  of  the  toads  and  smells  of 
Rome,  dilettante  in  philosophy  and  the  fine  arts,  admirer  of 
the  feline  type:  in  Paris  in  the  month  of  May  of  the  year 
MDCCCLXXX.) 

As  has  been  indicated,  ShifPs  philosophy  brought  forth 
an  eager  response  from  similar  qualities  in  my  father's  own 
nature  which  no  one  else  had  stirred.  Indeed  such  was  their 
intimacy  up  to  1880  that,  though  in  the  seventeen  years  which 
followed  they  saw  one  another  only  once,  on  my  father's  re- 
turn to  Europe  they  found  their  ties  in  no  wise  broken  by 

124 


I)K.  I1KNKY  SI  1  IKK 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

the  long  separation.  Again  the  two  resumed  their  old  rela- 
tions. Again  Shiff  held  forth  on  socialism  and  morals  in 
Montmartre  brasseries,  and  on  a  peculiar  breed  of  anarchy 
which  he  tempered  by  optimism  in  working-men's  cafes  in  the 
St.  Antoine  Quarter.  Again  he  laid  before  Saint-Gaudens 
his  cheerful  outlook  that  in  early  days  so  opened  the  sculp- 
tor's receptive  eyes  to  things  beyond  his  art  and  later  so 
encouraged  him  in  his  periods  of  despondency. 


127 


V 

THE  SECOND  STAY  IN  ITALY 

1872-1875 

New  York  Activities — The  Death  of  Mary  Saint-Gaudens — An  In- 
toxicated Frenchman  and  a  Half-dressed  German — From  Paris  to 
Rome — On  Foot  to  Naples — Difficulty  with  the  Silence — Cameos 
— Other  Misfortunes — The  Death  of  Rhinehart — Light  Ahead — 
Paris  According  to  Bion. 

SAINT-GAUDENS  has  little  to  say  of  his  stay  in  New 
York  upon  his  return  from  Europe.  It  was  success- 
ful and  short  though  full  of  intense  nervous  stress; 
for  beside  his  troubles  with  the  five  patrons  of  whom  he 
speaks,  he  obtained  a  number  of  other  orders  only  through 
great  persistence.  One  of  these  commissions  for  a  large,  semi- 
circular panel  for  the  Adams  Express  Company  Building  in 
Chicago,  represented  a  bull-dog,  with  revolvers  and  bowie 
knives  to  assist  him,  guarding  a  couple  of  safes.  Another,  for 
a  silver  candelabra,  which  Tiffany  was  to  place  in  the  Gordon 
Bennett  yacht  Mohawk,  was  a  figure  of  an  Indian  dancing 
with  knife  and  scalp.  Moreover  the  sculptor  successfully 
sought  out  orders  for  copies  of  antique  figures  and  busts,  such 
as  those  of  Antonius  and  Apollo,  a  bust  of  Samuel  Johnson  to 
be  modeled  from  engravings,  and  a  statue  of  Psyche.  And  all 
the  while  he  taught  his  brother,  Louis  Saint-Gaudens,  his 
friend,  Louis  Herzog,  and  two  others  to  cut  camoes. 

Such  energy  would  have  been  exceptional  enough  with  the 
firmest  foundation.  But  my  father  struggled  along  on  only 
the  flimsiest  basis,  since  at  that  time  the  results  of  the  great 
panic  of  1873  made  money  extremely  hard  to  obtain.  What 
buoyed  him  up  through  all  these  struggles,  however,  was  that 

128 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

self-confidence  which  led  him,  on  leaving  Rome,  to  tell  Miss 
Belle  Gibbs  that  though  he  was  then  traveling  in  the  steerage 
he  knew  that  eventually  conditions  would  be  altered  and  that, 
as  a  well-known  artist,  he  would  be  crossing  the  ocean  in  the 
cabin. 

Also  before  taking  up  his  brief  account  of  this  New  York 
visit,  I  have  a  word  more  to  add  in  connection  with  his  final 
glimpse  of  his  mother  which  he  barely  mentions ;  because,  as 
he  expressed  himself  much  later  in  life,  "there  is  always  the 
'triste'  undertone  in  my  soul  that  comes  from  my  sweet  Irish 
mother."  It  is  a  pathetic  outcry  from  a  nature  little  accus- 
tomed to  exhibit  its  sorrows,  and  is  contained  in  this  letter 
from  him  to  his  close  friend,  Richard  Watson  Gilder,  written 
in  1885,  after  the  death  of  Mr.  Gilder's  mother: 

Dear  Gilder: 

I  have  gone  through  the  same  grief  you  are  hav- 
ing; and,  although  at  times  it  seemed  as  if  I  could  not 
bear  it,  again  I  felt  that  I  could  have  no  heart  when 
it  seemed  as  if  nothing  had  occurred  and  I  had  a  light 
heart.  But  that  has  all  gone  by.  Now  I  know  that  I 
had  a  heart  as  regards  my  mother,  and  the  trial  has  been 
like  a  great  fire  that  has  passed,  and  it  seems,  after  all 
these  years,  as  the  one  holy  spot  in  my  life,  my  sweet 
mother.     I  am  with  you  in  your  grief,  believe  me. 

Affectionately, 

A.  St.-Gaudens. 

I  turn  to  the  reminiscences : 

I  was  not  long  idle  in  New  York,  as,  shortly  after 
my  arrival,  I  began  the  bust  of  Senator  Evarts  in  the 
dressing-room  of  his  house  on  the  southwest  corner  of 

129 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Second  Avenue  and  Fifteenth  Street.  Thereafter  one 
thing  rapidly  led  to  another.  Through  Mr.  Evarts  I 
received  a  commission  for  a  bust  of  Mr.  Edward 
Stoughton,  and  later  of  Mr.  Edwards  Pierrepont,  then 
Attorney  General  under  Grant.  After  that  followed 
an  order  from  Mr.  Elihu  Root,  now  Secretary  of  State, 
for  two  copies  of  the  busts  of  Demosthenes  and  Cicero, 
which  made  me  feel  richer  than  I  have  ever  felt  since. 
And  lastly,  Mr.  L.  H.  Willard,  an  admirer  of  my  old 
employer  LeBrethon,  on  learning  that  I  was  returning 
to  Italy,  commissioned  me  to  have  a  sarcophagus  cut 
for  him  and  to  model  a  figure  of  Silence,  to  be  placed  at 
the  head  of  the  principal  staircase  in  the  Masonic  Build- 
ing on  the  corner  of  Twenty-third  Street  and  Sixth  Ave- 
nue.    The  less  said  about  that  statue  the  better. 

With  this,  to  me,  bewildering  amount  of  work,  I 
sailed  on  the  Egypt  for  Liverpool,  my  brother  Louis 
having  gone  abroad  a  month  or  so  ahead  of  me  to  see 
that  things  were  ready  when  I  got  to  Rome,  and  inci- 
dentally to  earn  his  living,  as  I  had  done,  by  cameo  cut- 
ting. The  day  of  my  departure  was  a  sad  one,  for  it 
was  the  last  I  saw  of  my  mother  when  she  stood  weep- 
ing on  the  dock,  and  it  seems  as  if  I  had  a  presentiment 
that  it  would  be  so. 

On  my  way  to  Rome  I  remained  some  months  in  the 
Rue  des  Saints-Peres  in  Paris  whither  I  was  followed 
from  New  York  by  my  friend  Gortelmeyer,  a  lithog- 
rapher who  drew  beautifully.  There  very  early  one 
morning,  while  walking  along  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel, 
I  suddenly  encountered  an  old  comrade  of  Rome,  by  the 

130 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

name  of  Noel.  A  peculiarity  about  him  was  that,  al- 
though austere  in  the  ordinary  go  of  life,  for  some 
inexplicable  reason  he  became  unusually  affectionate 
toward  me  when  he  had  imbibed  more  than  necessary. 
Upon  this  occasion  he  had  evidently  been  indulging  to  a 
joyous  degree,  for  he  hugged  me  in  the  most  exuberant 
Latin  fashion,  until  in  my  desire  to  escape  I  gave  him 
my  address,  thinking  he  would  promptly  forget  it. 

I  was  wrong.  For  very  early  on  a  morning  shortly 
after  my  sidewalk  encounter,  as  I  opened  the  door  at 
the  foot  of  our  little  dark,  narrow  stairs  in  answer  to  a 
ring  of  the  bell,  I  found  that  I  had  admitted  my  happy 
friend. 

"Hello!  Hello!"  he  shouted,  as  he  fumbled  and 
rumbled  up  the  narrow  stairs. 

Then  he  got  to  the  top  of  the  flight,  and  strange 
things  began  to  happen. 

In  the  first  place,  my  friend  Gortelmeyer  wore  as  a 
night-shirt  an  undershirt  so  shrunk  that  it  came  down 
to  but  six  or  eight  inches  below  his  arms.  Moreover, 
his  first  requirement  on  awakening  was  his  glasses, 
which  he  always  had  difficulty  in  finding.  So,  awak- 
ened at  the  noise,  by  the  time  we  arrived  he  was  on  his 
feet,  and  a  spectacle  for  the  gods,  as  he  stood  with  his 
back  toward  us,  bending  over  the  chair  next  to  his  bed. 

Noel,  on  seeing  this  vision,  threw  up  his  arms  and 
shouted,  "God  in  Heaven,  what  is  that?  What  is  that?" 

"Gortelmeyer,"  I  said,  as  he  continued  his  blind,  help- 
less search,  "for  Heaven's  sake,  turn  round!  Let  me 
introduce  you,  Mr.  Gortelmeyer — Mr.  Noel.     Mr.  Noel 

131 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

— Mr.  Gortelmeyer."  Whereupon  the  long,  thin,  lank, 
blond  Prussian,  in  the  undress  I  have  described,  shook 
hands  in  a  most  dignified  manner,  in  the  white  four- 
o'clock  light  of  the  studio,  with  the  short,  fat,  intoxi- 
cated Frenchman,  until  Noel,  shouting  up  to  the  last, 
sat  down  and  begged  me  to  let  him  wash  his  face. 

"Go  into  the  bedroom,  and  you  will  find  a  sponge 
and  water,"  I  replied. 

There  followed  a  great  splashing,  and  in  a  moment 
Noel  appeared  crying  and  in  an  awful  condition. 

"My  God !  My  head  has  never  been  as  dirty  as  this !" 
he  bubbled. 

He  was  right ;  for,  in  the  dimness  of  his  mind,  he  had 
used  the  pail  in  which  the  soiled  water  was  thrown. 

Shortly  after  this  Dammouse  and  I  went  to  Rome  by 
way  of  Venice  and  Leghorn,  stopping  at  the  latter  place 
to  see  Mr.  Torrey,  the  American  Consul  there,  who 
was  to  advise  with  me  as  to  the  carving  of  the  sarcoph- 
agus for  Mr.  Willard.  I  recollect  a  delightful  drive 
on  the  sea  road  and  a  dinner  at  his  house,  where  I  was 
so  impressed  by  the  gorgeousness  of  the  butler  who  was 
serving  at  table  and  so  ignorant  of  the  complex  work- 
ings of  the  utensil  used  for  taking  asparagus  from  the 
plate  that  I  discharged  a  great  forkful  of  that  interest- 
ing vegetable  over  my  knees  and  onto  the  floor.  I  con- 
fess to  still  finding  difficulty  with  that  tool,  and  I  be- 
lieve many  of  my  readers  have  a  similar  trouble,  but 
fear  to  confess  it. 

On  arriving  in  Rome,  I  was  of  course  welcomed  with 
open  arms  by  "The  Hippopotamus"  family,  whose  debt 

132 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

I  was  now  able  to  cancel.  Promptly  also  I  took  up  the 
routine  of  my  life  very  much  as  I  had  left  it,  except 
that  Soares  had  gone,  and  now,  in  my  opulence,  I  occu- 
pied the  entire  studio.  I  began  work  at  once  on  the 
figure  of  Silence;  and  in  addition  inaugurated  a  fifth 
love  affair,  a  very  brief  one,  however,  with  a  beautiful 
model,  Angelina,  by  name,  with  whom  I  wanted  to  elope 
to  Paris.  She  was  wise  enough  to  refuse,  and  that 
passed  away  like  those  which  preceded  it. 

From  this  point  the  tide  began  to  turn  in  my  favor. 
For,  soon  after,  Governor  Morgan,  on  a  visit  to  Italy, 
learning  of  my  presence  there,  came  to  call  on  me.  The 
fact  of  my  being  in  Rome,  the  charm  of  that  city,  the 
idyllic  loveliness  of  the  garden  in  which  my  studio  was 
smothered,  and,  to  be  literal,  its  nearness  to  his  hotel, 
the  Costanzi,  must  have  appealed  peculiarly  to  him 
upon  his  realizing  that  here  was  the  son  of  the  interest- 
ing man  who  had  made  shoes  for  him  in  New  York. 
Accordingly,  upon  his  request,  I  went  to  see  him  at  the 
hotel,  where  he  asked  me  what  it  would  cost  to  cut  in 
marble  the  statue  of  Hiawatha,  which,  through  the  gen- 
erosity of  Mr.  Gibbs,  I  had  succeeded  in  casting  in 
plaster  before  going  to  America.  I  have  forgotten 
what  the  price  was ;  I  think  in  the  neighborhood  of  eight 
hundred  dollars.  He  said  he  would  take  the  statue  if 
I  would  execute  it  for  him  for  that  sum.  I  suppose  I 
danced  with  glee  when  I  reached  my  studio  after  that 
visit,  as  here  again  was  one  of  the  happiest  days  of  my 
life.     There  seem  to  be  plenty  of  them  as  I  proceed. 

Immediately  I  set  about  having  the  statue  carved,  and 

133 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

presently  my  studio  was  a  busy  place.  The  "Hiawatha," 
the  "Silence,"  the  busts  I  had  made,  and  the  copies 
of  antiques,  were  being  cut  in  marble.  I  was  working 
away  completing  the  portraits  of  the  two  daughters  of 
Mr.  Gibbs,-^I  must  confess  to  a  weak  spot  for  one  of 
them, — and  I  was  beginning  the  studies  of  statues  with 
which  I  was  to  embellish  the  world.  The  first  repre- 
sented Mozart,  nude,  playing  the  violin.  Why  under 
heaven  I  made  him  nude  is  a  mystery.  The  second  dis- 
played a  Roman  Slave  holding  young  Augustus  on  the 
top  of  a  Pompeian  column  and  crowning  him  with 
laurel.  This  group  a  sarcastic  but  good-natured  friend, 
the  Swiss  architect,  Arnold,  said  looked  like  a  locomo- 
tive. 

Turning  from  work  to  play  days,  I  remember  how  at 
this  time,  in  company  with  George  Dubois,  the  land- 
scape painter,  and  Ernest  Mayor,  a  Swiss  architect, 
I  made  a  walking  trip  from  Rome  to  Naples.  We  took 
the  cars  sometimes,  the  diligence  frequently,  and 
donkey-back  often,  but  for  the  most  part  we  footed  it 
through  the  heart  of  the  Calabrian  mountains.  We 
were  told  that  this  was  dangerous  business,  as  there 
were  brigands  at  large,  and  in  consequence  ostenta- 
tiously displayed  revolvers  at  our  belts.  One  morn- 
ing on  arriving  at  some  town  in  the  center  of  the 
district,  each  went  in  a  different  direction  to  make 
sketches.  Presently  a  big  gendarme  touched  me  on  the 
shoulder  and  asked  me  for  my  passport.  I  feigned 
ignorance  of  Italian,  but  he  insisted.  I  showed  him  my 
card,  yet  that  did  not  appease  him;  the  result  being 

134 


from  a  photograph  owned  by  Thnmiw  Moore.     Cnpr, 

AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS  (SRATKD),  GEORGE  DUBOIS  (AT  THE  LEFT), 
AND  ERNEST  MAYOR,  DURING  A  WALKING  TRIP  IN  1871 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

that  we  marched  together  to  the  municipio,  the  city  hall 
of  the  place.  There  I  was  locked  in  a  room  in  which, 
plastered  on  the  wall,  was  a  printed  poster  offering  so 
many  thousand  francs  for  the  capture,  dead  or  alive,  of 
three  brigands,  and  describing  their  names  and  build. 
Shortly  after  my  arrival,  Mayor  was  brought  in,  and 
he  was  soon  followed  by  Dubois.  With  a  gendarme 
passing  to  and  fro  outside  the  door,  we  were  kept  in 
this  room  for  a  long  while  before  we  were  ushered  into 
another  chamber  and  brought  into  the  presence  of  the 
sindaco,  who  corresponds  to  the  mayor  of  our  towns. 
He  endeavored  to  have  us  explain  in  Italian  what  we 
were  about.  But  finding  that  difficult  business,  he 
presently  questioned  us  in  French,  which  he  spoke  ad- 
mirably, with  the  result  that  in  a  short  time  we  were  dis- 
missed with  good  wishes  and  with  the  advice  not  to 
show  our  weapons  so  openly,  and  to  carry  regular  pass- 
ports. 

On  arriving  at  Naples,  we  walked  along  the  divine 
road  to  Sorrento.  It  seems  impossible  to  give  in  words 
the  impression  of  the  charm  that  pervaded  that  journey. 
We  were,  of  course,  in  the  full  glow  of  youth  and 
health,  which  caused  it  to  seem  all  the  more  intensely 
beautiful.  The  view  through  the  perfumed  orange  and 
lemon  groves  of  the  wonderful  bay  of  Naples,  with 
Ischia  in  the  distance,  made  that  day  one  upon  which  it 
could  be  said  with  truth  that  life  was  worth  living. 
We  loafed  around  at  Sorrento,  and  finally  rowed  over 
to  Capri,  the  immortal.  Of  course  no  one  who  has  ever 
been  to  Capri  can  forget  it  and  its  impressions.     The 

137 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

dominant  note  to  me,  as  I  look  back,  are  the  fields 
of  flowers,  fields  and  fields  of  flowers — it  was  like 
an  enchantment — that  and  a  religious  procession 
passing  through  the  narrow,  white-walled  streets, 
where  the  inhabitants  literally  flung  bushels  of 
flowers  over  the  priests  and  their  followers,  as 
they  chanted  their  religious  hymns.  We  were 
seated  on  a  height  where  we  could  see  the  windings 
of  the  procession  and  the  shower  of  flowers,  that  be- 
came almost  too  fairy-like  and  dream-like  to  be  true. 

Other,  but  secondary,  visions  are  of  the  palace  of 
Tiberius  and  the  marble  baths  of  that  time  half -sunken 
in  the  winter,  and  of  a  dance  one  evening  with  some 
Anacapri  girls.  This  was  especially  amusing  because 
of  the  contrast  in  the  build  of  Mayor  and  Dubois;  for 
Mayor  was  as  short  as  Dubois  was  tall,  standing  about 
five  feet  six  in  height,  most  of  which  was  trunk  and 
head  and  beard.  His  short  legs  seemed  to  be  construc- 
ted behind  his  body  and  joined  on  in  a  funny  way. 
Of  course  the  two  had  to  choose  partners  quite  the  op- 
posite in  figure,  and  the  one  Mayor  selected  appeared 
voluminous  to  say  the  least.  She  was  dressed  in  white 
and  it  was  a  merry  sight  to  see  him  buried  in  her  ample 
bosom  as  he  danced  around  with  barely  anything  visible 
but  his  short  legs. 

We  returned  to  Rome  again  at  the  end  of  our  vaca- 
tion, and  there,  shortly  after,  I  met  Miss  Augusta  F. 
Homer,  who  later  became  Mrs.  Saint-Gaudens.  This 
time  I  remained  for  two  years  or  so  in  the  seductive  spot, 
making  five  years,  in  all  of  residence,  during  most  of 

138 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

which  I  had  the  advantage  of  being  thrown  in  with 
charming  Italian  families  and,  by  living  there  in  the 
summer  months,  of  seeing  the  spontaneous  Italian  life. 
The  concerts  on  the  Piazza  Colonna  on  those  warm 
nights,  with  the  soft  air,  the  lovers,  the  ease  of  it  all,  so 
far  from  the  stress  of  existence  here,  form  unforgettable 
memories. 

At  first  glance  it  may  seem  strange  that  in  this  account  of 
Rome  my  father  makes  scarcely  a  mention  of  the  other  Ameri- 
can sculptors  about  him.  Yet  the  attitude  is  typical  of  his 
frame  of  mind  throughout  the  whole  book  from  the  very  begin- 
ning, where  he  explains  that  his  writing  would  not  be  a  com- 
ment on  art  and  artists.  Moreover,  here  in  Rome  he  was 
singularly  out  of  key  with  the  majority  of  the  sculptors  from 
his  own  land,  since  they,  to  a  greater  extent  than  those  at 
home,  clung  to  the  "classic"  tradition  from  which  Saint- 
Gaudens  so  desired  to  break  away.  Randolph  Rogers  and 
William  Wetmore  Story  stood  at  the  head  of  this  group. 
Rogers  at  that  time  must  have  been  finishing  his  huge  seated 
statue  of  W.  H.  Seward,  now  in  Madison  Square,  New  York. 
Story  was  modeling  on  his  female  figure  of  "Jerusalem  in  Her 
Desolation,"  which,  beyond  doubt,  irritated  my  father's  youth- 
ful and  radical  turn  of  mind,  despite  the  respect  he  enter- 
tained for  the  elder  sculptor  as  a  cultivated  man  of  the  world. 

Indeed,  of  all  those  followers  of  classicism  Saint-Gaudens 
only  mentions  one,  William  H.  Rinehart  of  Baltimore.  For 
Rinehart,  though  twenty-four  years  my  father's  senior,  was, 
like  him,  ever  youthful  and  enthusiastic  in  spirit;  while  his 
sculpture  displayed  a  refined  delicacy  as  yet  lacking  in  his 
contemporaries.  During  the  few  years  that  Saint-Gaudens 
knew  him  he  was  completing  his  "Latona  and  Her  Children," 
a  group  which  bore  the  mark  of  strong  dignity  in  conception 
and  breadth  and  power  in  modeling.     Rinehart  died  in  1874. 

139 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Saint-Gaudens  was  his  companion  to  the  end,  and,  curiously 
enough,  many  years  after  became  one  of  the  trustees  for  the 
fifty-thousand-dollar  fund  Rinehart  left  to  provide  a  Roman 
scholarship  for  young  sculptors.  The  loss  of  this  friend  I 
know  was  a  severe  shock  to  my  father.  Here  is  an  extract 
from  a  letter  he  wrote  concerning  it  to  his  patron,  Mr.  L.  H. 
Willard: 

Of  poor  Rinehart's  death  you  know  long  before  this. 
I  stayed  with  him  two  nights  before  he  died.  Nobody 
thought  he  was  going  off  so  soon.  He  went  very  sud- 
denly but  bravely  when  he  did  know  it.  Yesterday 
Fortuny,  the  best  modern  painter,  also  a  young  man, 
died  here.  These  two  deaths  make  a  very  painful  im- 
pression here  indeed.  Rinehart's  body  is  being  taken 
home. 

Indeed  Saint-Gaudens*  days  in  Rome  immediately  after  his 
return  from  America  were  far  from  cheerful.  In  the  first 
place,  the  "Silence"  failed  to  progress  smoothly,  as  is  shown 
by  these  portions  of  two  more  letters  to  Mr.  Willard,  illustra- 
ting the  limitations  he  fought  and  his  methods  of  work,  which 
were  strangely  typical  of  those  in  almost  every  commission 
he  received  through  after-life.     He  writes: 

August,  26th,  1873. 
Dear  Mr.  Willard: 

.  .  .  I  have  set  up  a  large  sketch  of  the  "Silence." 
.  .  .  It  is  not  Egyptian  though,  but  much  nearer  to 
your  own  idea  of  arrangement  of  the  drapery,  and  is 
far  more  impressive  than  it  could  be  in  the  Egyptian 
style.  She  has  fine  drapery  over  her  body  that  gives  a 
pleasing  character,  and  a  heavy  kind  of  veil  that  covers 

140 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

her  head,  drooping  over  the  face  so  that  it  throws  the 
face  in  shadow  and  gives  a  strong  appearance  of  mys- 
tery.    .     .     . 

I  have  nevertheless  got  all  the  necessary  information 
for  the  Egyptian  figure  in  case  you  wish  it.  But  I  very 
strongly  prefer  what  I  have  done,  as  do  all  who  have 
seen  it.  Besides,  the  subject  being  abstract,  I  think  it 
better  after  all  not  to  follow  any  exact  style,  for  the 
reason  that  Silence  is  no  more  Egyptian  than  it  is 
Greek  or  Roman  or  anything  else.  I  think  in  that  case 
"Le  Style  Libre"  is  the  best. 

Again : 

Rome,  December  7,  1873. 
My  Dear  Mr.  Willard: 

I  enclose  a  photograph  that  I  have  had  taken  from  a 
study  of  drapery  that  I  have  made  for  the  "Silence." 
.  .  .  Of  course  there  are  to  be  a  great  many  modifica- 
tions, but  you  can  get  the  idea.  .  .  .  The  drapery 
on  the  body  is  light,  showing  the  form,  the  principal 
fastening  between  the  two  breasts  being  the  rose.  The 
drapery  in  the  photograph  covers  the  left  leg  more  than 
I  have  the  intention  of  doing.     .     .     . 

.  .  .  I  am  now  a  little  short  and  should  be  thankful 
for  some  funds  by  return  of  post.  For  two  reasons  I 
was  in  hopes  that  I  would  not  be  obliged  to  ask  for 
some  time.  First  I  hoped  to  get  two  thousand  francs 
for  some  copies  of  antiques  that  I  have  in  hand,  which 
sum  I  was  to  receive  this  month  on  the  figures  getting 
to  America.     Everything  was  all  right  until  a  work- 

141 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

man  broke  two  fingers  off  one  of  the  figures,  "The 
Venus  of  the  Capitol,"  and  I  have  been  obliged  to  com- 
mence it  over  again,  and  so  will  not  get  my  money  until 
February.  Secondly,  my  brother  for  whom  I  had  or- 
ders for  cameos  for  which  he  was  to  receive  a  good  sum 
of  money  fell  sick  of  pneumonia  three  weeks  ago.  He 
was  expected  to  die  and  is  only  now  commencing  to  get 
better.     .     .     . 

To  all  of  this  Mr.  Willard  replied  with  most  kindly  but 
disconcerting  letters  in  which  he  criticized  the  veil,  the  hands, 
parts  of  the  drapery,  short-waisted  women,  and  the  likelihood 
of  losing  grace  to  obtain  dignity.  So  that,  what  with  these 
and  other  troubles  before  and  after,  the  commission  brought 
my  father  little  but  misery.  Here  is  the  letter  which  he  wrote 
to  the  sculptor,  Mr.  J.  Q.  A.  Ward,  regarding  the  outcome : 

153  Fourth  Avenue,  July  5th,  1876. 
J.  Q.  A.  Ward.,  Esq., 
My  Dear  Sir: 

I  received  your  note  to-day  and  I  must  thank  you 
sincerely  for  your  good  wishes  and  very  kind  offer  to 
express  yourself  favorably  in  regard  to  me.  I  regret 
though  that  you  have  not  seen  the  figure  at  Gov.  Mor- 
gan's, for  I  don't  think  that  the  "Silence"  does  me  jus- 
tice. I  am  satisfied  with  it  only  in  having  obtained  as 
much  as  I  did  from  the  restrictions  forced  upon  me  in 
regard  to  making  it.  Had  I  had  my  own  way  com- 
pletely I  would  have  created  an  entirely  different  thing, 
with  broad,  heavy  drapery  instead  of  its  being  very 
fine.  The  left  hand  would  have  crossed  the  body  sus- 
taining the  drapery  and  would  have  been  entirely  con- 

142 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

cealed.  The  hands  which  are  bad,  particularly  the 
right  one,  I  have  yet  to  work  upon  a  great  deal.  I  left 
the  figure  to  be  cut  in  Rome,  and  of  course  during  my 
absence  the  workmen  went  at  it  free  and  easy.  So  I 
am  still  anxious  to  have  you  suspend  judgment  till  you 
have  seen  the  "Injun"  which  I  modeled  in  '71. 
Thanking  you  again,  I  am 

Yours  very  truly, 

August  St.-Gaudens. 

Also  besides  his  difficulties  with  the  "Silence,"  other  worries 
beset  my  father,  worries  rather  typically  explained  in  the  fol- 
lowing portion  of  a  letter  to  Senator  William  M.  Evarts: 

I  have  been  unwell  for  the  last  two  months  from  a 
blow  I  received  in  falling  from  a  platform  in  the  studio. 
Previous  to  that  my  brother  was  dangerously  ill  for  six 
weeks,  and  again  before  that  I  could  not  work  for  nearly 
two  months  on  account  of  repairs  in  the  studio.  I  give 
these  as  the  succession  of  circumstances  that  have  been 
the  cause  of  my  great  delay  in  delivering  your  orders. 
The  Psyche  is  very  far  advanced  but  I  'm  afraid  it  can- 
not be  finished  soon  enough  to  send  with  your  bust  which 
I  'm  now  desirous  you  should  have  immediately.     .     .     . 

As  the  result  of  all  this,  and  other  misfortunes  of  a  similar 
nature,  in  order  to  keep  his  head  above  water  Saint-Gaudens 
was  forced  to  return  to  his  cameos.  By  this  time  he  had 
established  himself  as  the  most  skilful  cameo-engraver  in  Paris 
or  Rome.  So,  when  the  carving  of  brooches  and  seals  in  onyx, 
amethysts  and  such  semi-precious  stones  became  the  only  re- 
munerative labor  at  his  command,  he  set  up  a  shop  in  which 

143 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

his  brother  Louis,  Herzog,  and  a  couple  of  others  worked 
under  his  eye.  Occasionally  also,  when  in  especial  need  of 
twenty-five  or  fifty  dollars,  he  would  sit  at  the  lathe  himself, 
though  he  cordially  hated  the  task,  and  finish  a  brooch  and 
two  ear-rings  in  twelve  hours.  One  of  the  most  successful 
of  these  commissions  of  which  there  is  still  a  memory  is  a 
cameo  that  Louis  Saint-Gaudens  cut  under  my  father's  direc- 
tion for  Mr.  E.  W.  Stoughton.  The  brooch  brought  the 
young  men  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  and  was  especially 
admired,  as  Stoughton,  with  his  picturesque  masses  of  long 
hair,  formed  a  most  interesting  subject. 

Fortunately  for  my  father  this  was  almost  the  last  occa- 
sion in  which  cameo-cutting  played  a  part;  the  final  one  he 
did,  not  long  after,  for  my  mother's  engagement  ring.  His 
interest  in  this  phase  of  his  development  nevertheless  always 
remained  with  him  in  later  life,  and  whenever  a  chance  came 
he  would  ask  to  see  his  stones.  Usually  he  had  no  recollec- 
tion of  having  cut  them,  nor  was  that  surprising  when  it  is 
remembered  how  many  hundreds  he  did  between  the  ages  of 
nineteen  and  twenty-five. 

But,  to  return  to  conditions  in  Rome,  the  sky  was  not  al- 
ways overcast,  and  indeed  when  the  change  for  the  better  did 
arrive  it  was  all  my  father's  optimistic  frame  of  mind  could 
desire.  My  mother,  who  had  but  recently  met  him,  tells  me 
that  so  great  was  the  excess  of  his  enthusiasm  over  the  height 
of  his  wave  of  fortune,  that  he  purchased  for  himself  an  in- 
explicably high  silk  hat,  his  first,  beneath  which  he  promptly 
walked  across  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  in  the  rain,  and  without  an 
umbrella,  to  visit  her.  Further  to  describe  this  new  order  of 
things  I  will  add  extracts  from  two  letters  written  to  the 
Gibbs  family  in  the  fall  of  1874.     The  first  is  to  Mr.  Gibbs: 

.  .  .  Ever  since  I  have  been  back  from  Paris  I 
have  been  working  very  hard,  and  have  settled  on  what 
I  shall  do  as  my  next  ideal  statue,  a  Roman  slave,  a  f  e- 

144 


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Cn 

AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

male,  taking  the  Emperor  Augustus  as  a  child  and  plac- 
ing him  on  a  pedestal.  For  an  inscription  I  shall  have 
"ave  c^isar  imperator!"  The  slave  is  crowning  her 
future  Emperor.  The  child,  quite  young,  shows  al- 
ready his  dominating  disposition  and  seems  to  realize 
his  dignity,  being  very  serious,  with  a  big  palm  in  his 
hand.     I  think  it  would  be  interesting  as  an  idea. 

The  second  letter  is  to  Miss  Florence  Gibbs : 

.  .  .  I  told  you  in  a  former  letter  of  the  plans  I 
have  had  for  my  next  ideal  figure.  I  have  put  it  up  and 
it  has  come  out  beyond  all  my  expectations.  It  is  at 
present  as  large  as  the  statue  will  be,  but  in  the  state  of 
a  sketch.  I  have  been  very  highly  complimented  and 
advised  by  everybody  to  do  it  as  soon  as  possible.  Miss 
Brewster,  the  correspondent,  told  me  that  it  was  one  of 
the  finest  things  she  has  seen  in  sculpture.  Another 
visitor  told  me  that  I  would  make  my  name  and  fortune 
with  it  and  that  it  was  the  best  work  that  had  been  done 
in  Rome  for  a  long  while.  By  still  others  I  have  been 
advised  to  carry  it  out  for  the  Centennial.  My  hope 
now  is  to  go  to  America,  leaving  here  by  the  end  of  De- 
cember. I  would  take  a  cast  of  it  with  me  as  well  as  a 
cast  of  another  thing  I  have  put  up,  a  little  Greek  girl 
about  eight  years  of  age  lying  full  length  on  a  low 
Pompeian  bed  and  kissing  an  infant;  the  arrangement 
is  different  from  what  is  generally  seen.  In  America 
I  would  rent  a  small  studio  to  show  them  in  and  by  and 
by  get  commissions  from  them.  If  I  did,  or  even  got 
any  other  good  commission,  I  should  then  return  as  soon 

147 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

as  possible  so  as  to  make  the  "Slave"  for  the  Centen- 
nial. I  think  that  Miss  Homer  will  send  you  a  very 
flattering  notice  of  me.     .     .     . 

The  city  is  changing  a  great  deal  and  rapidly.  In 
the  Coliseum  they  have  dug  down  to  a  great  depth  and 
it  has  altered  the  aspect  immensely.  The  real  arena 
was  not  where  you  have  seen  it  but  much  lower.  Be- 
sides, all  below  the  old  arena  is  one  mass  of  construction. 
It  is  very  interesting.  They  have  found  water  galler- 
ies with  the  water  still  running  and  in  good  order,  be- 
side a  large  gallery  of  which  you  can  see  the  end  at  the 
furthest  end  of  the  Coliseum.  There  are  interesting 
marks  or  scratches  on  the  stones  of  gladiators  in  their 
armor,  fighting  amongst  themselves  and  with  bears  and 
elephants,  and  of  dogs  running  after  rabbits.  Then 
also  they  have  found  another  very  interesting  place 
where  they  thought  they  fastened  the  boats.     .     .     . 

To  conclude  this  chapter  I  will  insert  a  translation  of  a 
letter  from  my  father's  friend,  Bion: 

My  dear  old  San  Gaudenzio: 

I  have  just  received  your  letter  of  the  month  of  August 
in  what  a  strange  state.  Good  Lord !  Your  dear  compatriot, 
no  doubt  to  take  better  care  of  it,  must  have  soaked  it  in 
oil.  Some  kind  of  an  American  invention,  I  suppose.  But 
at  last  I  have  it. 

I  have  nothing  against  you  for  not  having  come  to  see  me 
this  summer.  I  am  myself  too  negligent  about  those  who  are 
interesting  to  me  to  make  a  point  of  any  ceremony  with  you. 
And  I  reserve  in  a  corner  of  my  soul  my  friendship  for  the 
day  that  it  will  please  you  to  come  and  find  it.     I  do  not  wish 

148 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

to  importune  you,  but  seeing  that  when  you  came  to  Paris 
you  prolonged  your  silence  as  though  I  did  not  exist,  I  be- 
came timorous  and  kept  myself  quiet.  But  I  see  that  I  was 
wrong.  Do  not  let  us  say  anything  more  about  it.  Another 
time  I  will  not  doubt  you  again. 

I  hope  that  you  will  succeed  with  your  intended,  for  if  I 
have  understood  you,  I  believe  she  is  charming  and  amiable. 
Get  married.  Happiness  is  there.  I  believe  the  happiness  of 
others  and  their  welfare  lies  in  marriage.  In  a  letter  which 
I  wrote  to  you  this  autumn  and  which  I  kept  for  the  above 
named  reasons,  I  preached  to  you  about  this  subject,  and 
what  I  said  was  as  gay  as  the  Miserere  sung  by  the  Carmel- 
ites. On  that  day  the  black  water  of  melancholy  was  rushing 
through  my  brain  and  I  spoke  to  you  about  our  friends  and 
our  teeth  which  become  spoiled  as  we  get  old.  Therefore  I 
advised  you  at  the  end  to  get  married  and  remedy  it  all.  I 
do  not  dare  to  say  any  more.  To-day  you  have  put  me  in  a 
very  good  humor  with  your  epistle. 

So  you  pitch  into  the  Italians !  And  that  to  me,  who  have 
never  been  able  to  stand  them,  is  just  as  if  you  were  blowing 
a  trumpet  to  a  war-horse.  Those  Italians!  With  their 
honeyed  tongues,  their  velvet  paws !  Proud  bed-bugs !  Heads 
which  you  want  to  pound !  Hypocrites !  Infamous  traitors ! 
Cruel  cowards !  etc.,  etc.  I  could  go  on  forever  with  these 
imprecations. 

As  to  the  mysterious  charm  of  Rome,  I  have  heard  the  same 
from  others  who  like  you  have  lived  there  for  a  long  while. 
I  take  your  word  for  it,  but  it  is  probable  that  I  will  never 
experience  it. 

Since  we  are  talking  about  characters  of  people,  what  you 
say  about  Marquestc  *  does  not  surprise  me,  as  I  knew  it  al- 
ready.    Marqueste  is  a  somewhat  proud  fellow,  conscious  of 

*  A  winner  of  the  French  Roman  Prize  who  came  from  the  same  school 
and  class  as  Bion  and  Saint-Gaudens. 

149 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

a  certain  superiority  which  Nature  has  given  him,  a  legitimate 
pride  which  we  must  not  confound  with  conceit.  As  little  as 
I  was  acquainted  with  him  I  was  able  to  see  through  this  aris- 
tocrat, and  he  is  one,  and  I  had  already  predicted  that  in 
Rome  he  would  become  puffed  up  less  than  the  others.  So 
much  the  better  for  him!  There  is  considerable  complaint 
here  against  the  influence  which  these  Grand  Prix  fellows  en- 
joy in  the  exhibitions  and  in  the  obtaining  of  commissions. 
If  they  would  come  back  and  swallow  their  pills  and  be  a  little 
less  conceited  it  would  not  interfere  a  bit  with  their  talent. 

To  continue  the  chapter  about  our  comrades,  I  am  going 
to  give  you  some  advice.  You  see  France  a  little  too  much 
through  the  eyes  of  1870.  We  are  all  rascally  enough,  but  I 
can  judge  better  than  you.  And  what  I  say  is  not  through 
misanthropy  or  skepticism.  Be  careful.  The  frank  and  gay 
companions  of  the  past  are  very  much  changed  in  five  years. 
Of  course  there  are  exceptions.  You  would  now  find  fellows 
very  humble  who  have  been  very  stiff,  and  others  now  having 
very  superb  crests,  who  were  then  very  humble.  Also  you 
would  find  those  putting  on  airs  with  great  affectation  who 
used  to  have  great  simplicity  and  frankness.  So  when  you 
come  back,  do  the  same  thing.  Throw  dust  in  our  eyes,  in 
mine  as  well  as  in  others.  Praise  yourself  and  make  your  gold 
resplendent.  Brag  about  your  relations,  your  orders,  and 
promise  a  great  deal.  But  do  not  be  too  generous  or  they 
will  make  fun  of  you.  In  a  word,  astonish  us  as  much  as  you 
can  decently  without  becoming  ridiculous.  All  of  this  will 
keep  you  from  disenchantments  and  troubles  which  I  would 
not  envy  you. 

I  believe  I  am  giving  you  a  real  pleasure  in  sending  you  my 
photograph  and  I  want  the  same  kind  of  a  present  from  you, 
as  you  must  have  one  about  somewhere.  I  have  not  seen  either 
Gamier  or  Gortelmeyer,  who  was  not  in  when  I  called  there 
to-day.  At  any  rate  I  believe  that  you  will  soon  be  here 
yourself.     If  over  there  you  find  anybody  asking  about  me, 

150 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

say  all  the  good  things  you  can.  When  you  write  to  Soares, 
that  "Heart  of  Gold,"  just  add  a  little  word  at  the  end  to  let 
him  know  that  I  have  never  forgotten  him.  This  is  true,  as 
I  have  always  had  a  great  esteem  for  him  and  it  interests  me 
to  think  that  he  may  be  happy,  also  that  old  Simoes,  another 
good  fellow !  What  a  strange  life !  Sometimes  I  think  how 
pleasant  it  was  that  we  all  lived  together;  at  other  times  I  find 
myself  wondering  if  perhaps  they  have  been  dead  for  two  or 
three  years  already.  Before  I  finish,  I  must  tell  you  that  I 
saw  Ringel  yesterday.  That  man  knows  how  to  do  business, 
and  if  he  had  shown  the  energy  and  activity  in  commerce  that 
he  has  done  in  sculpture,  he  would  now  be  a  rich  man. 

I  will  say  good-night  to  you,  old  boy,  as  I  am  sleepy.     I 
am  going  to  bed  full  of  friendship  for  you. 

Paul  Bion. 


151 


VI 
A  FOOTHOLD 

1875-1877 

The  Progress  of  American  Art — The  German  Savings  Bank  Build- 
ing— Running  Water — Chiseling  out  Henry  Ward  Beecher — 
White  and  McKim — Teaching  at  Dobb's  Ferry — Admiration  for 
John  La  Farge — The  Farragut  Obtained — The  Randall — Anxiety 
and  Stress — Italian  Debts — The  Society  of  American  Artists. 

IN  1875  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  returned  to  the  United 
States  at  last  to  take  up  his  career  as  a  full-fledged  sculp- 
tor. For  ten  years  he  had  worked  in  this  land  at  his  cameo- 
engraving,  a  task  that  had  demanded  a  keen  eye  and  a  deli- 
cate hand.  A  large  portion  of  that  time,  also,  he  had  studied 
of  nights  in  art  schools.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  had  gone 
to  Paris,  mentally  and  physically  grounded  in  the  fundamen- 
tals of  drawing  and  low  relief  work,  already  taught  by  hard 
discipline  not  to  wait  upon  "inspiration"  but  to  think  best 
with  a  modeling  tool  in  his  hand.  For  a  year  in  the  Petite 
Ecole  and  two  years  in  the  Beaux  Arts  he  had  developed  his 
craft  through  a  vital  succession  of  weekly  figures  set  up  from 
life,  until  the  alphabet  of  the  human  figure  became  firmly 
planted  in  his  mind.  Last  of  all,  his  trained  artistic  sense 
had  profited  from  a  five-year  residence  in  Rome ;  since,  know- 
ing by  then  what  was  wise  to  select,  what  to  leave  untouched, 
he  had  discerned  below  the  poverty  of  the  contemporary 
classic  movement  the  spontaneity  of  the  early  Italians,  he  had 
acquired  from  them  an  ability  to  choose  his  subjects  from 
among  the  important  figures  of  the  moment,  and  then  to  give 
his  best  eiforts  to  transforming  them  into  vital  and  eternal 
symbols. 

152 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Great  changes  had  occurred  in  his  own  land  during  the  eight 
years  he  had  been  absent,  though  of  course  only  a  small  por- 
tion of  these  alterations  were  to  be  obvious  on  his  return. 
Story  still  stood  as  the  most  popular  artist  abroad,  still  sent 
home  his  classic  "Medeas."  Palmer  remained  distinctly  the 
leader  in  the  United  States,  executing  such  truly  workman- 
like monuments  as  that  of  "Chancellor  Robert  R.  Livingston." 
Ball  was  finishing  his  "Daniel  Webster"  for  Central  Park,  New 
York  City.  Randolph  Rogers  had  set  about  constructing  his 
"Nydia."  John  Rogers  continued  to  make  his  Civil  War 
"groups."  Launt  Thompson,  Larkin  G.  Mead,  and  George 
Bissell  seemed  as  active  as  ever.  Yet  in  reality,  with  the 
period  surrounding  the  Centennial  Exhibition  in  Philadelphia 
in  1876  the  new  spirit  crystallized.  Some  of  the  older  sculp- 
tors, almost  unconsciously,  began  to  look  about  in  order  to 
suit  the  changing  demands.  Brown,  Ball,  John  Rogers,  and 
Palmer  were  learning  to  couple  truth  with  sentiment.  Others 
who  had  studied  their  art  in  Italy  seemed  to  be  passing,  while 
those  who  had  acquired  technique  in  France  were  infusing  into 
it  a  truly  American  feeling.  The  frigid,  complacent,  Roman 
finish  appeared  ready  to  give  place  to  the  power  of  creation 
of  picturesque  truth  and  idealism.  J.  Q.  A.  Ward,  with  his 
"Shakspere"  fresh  from  the  clay,  became  President  of  the 
National  Academy  of  Design.  Olin  Warner,  only  just  re- 
turned from  abroad  with  sculpture  too  good  for  its  surround- 
ings, was  seeking  those  other  young  revolutionists  who  were 
ultimately  to  join  him  in  founding  the  Society  of  American 
Artists.  Daniel  Chester  French  had  recently  finished  his 
"Minute  Man"  in  Concord,  Massachusetts,  and  had  returned 
from  a  year  in  Italy  to  begin  work  on  his  pediment  for  the  St. 
Louis  custom-house. 

Yet,  as  I  have  said,  it  must  not  be  thought  that  Saint- 
Gaudens  returned  on  the  crest  of  an  obvious  wave.  From  the 
nearer,  narrower  viewpoint  the  outlook  still  remained  a  dismal 
one,  with  an  unusually  dreary  studio  in  the  German  Savings 

153 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Bank  Building  for  a  background.  Such  was  the  hopelessness 
of  his  surroundings,  indeed,  that  he  even  attempted  to  learn 
to  play  the  flute.  He  chose  the  flute,  he  said,  because  of  the 
very  obstinacy  of  his  character;  since  some  one  having  told 
him  that  it  required  a  protruding  upper  lip  to  play  it,  in 
this  way  strengthened  his  determination  to  do  so  in  spite  of  a 
"whopper  jaw." 

The  reminiscences  say : 

At  last,  when  my  marbles  were  finished,  I  went  back 
to  America.  I  had  succeeded,  meanwhile,  in  getting 
rid  of  all  my  money,  so  that  the  first  years  of  my  stay  in 
New  York  were  the  usual  hard  ones  of  artists'  begin- 
nings. I  took  a  studio  on  the  corner  of  Fourteenth 
Street  and  Fourth  Avenue,  in  the  German  Savings 
Bank  Building,  which  still  stands  as  I  write.  There 
wfcre  but  three  floors  and  no  elevator.  It  goes  with- 
out saying  that  it  was  before  the  advent  of  the  sky- 
scraper. The  first  floor  was  occupied  by  the  bank,  the 
second  floor  by  offices,  while  the  third  contained  rooms 
rented  out  to  Odd  Fellows  Lodges  for  occasional  meet- 
ings in  the  evening.  The  inconveniences  of  the  build- 
ing, and  its  restrictions,  were  probably  the  cause  of  the 
non-rental  of  the  offices  on  the  second  floor.  I  was  the 
first  tenant,  and  the  only  one  for  a  long  time,  so  that  it 
became  sad  business  going  up  this  iron  staircase  alone, 
and  walking  across  the  big  corridor  to  my  room,  my 
lonely  steps  echoing  through  the  hall. 

In  a  large  measure  this  depression  was  lost  on  the 
light-heartedness  of  my  youth.  Yet  because  of  my 
dislike  of  America  and  its  conditions,  the  dislike  com- 

154 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

mon  to  young  men  of  my  age  and  frame  of  mind  on 
their  return  to  America,  I  cast  about  for  something  to 
bring  back  to  my  memory  the  paradise  of  my  place  in 
Rome,  until  I  came  upon  an  idea.  I  would  turn  on 
the  water  at  the  little  wash-basin,  let  it  run  continu- 
ously with  a  gentle  tinkle,  and  thus  recall  the  sound  o£ 
the  fountain  in  the  garden  at  Rome. 

One  day,  soon  after,  the  engineer  of  the  German 
Savings  Bank  Building  paid  me  a  visit.  He  was  a 
man  of  middle  height,  portly,  good-natured,  with  very 
curly  black  hair,  which  seemed  to  be  dripping  grease, 
a  big,  heavy,  black  mustache,  and  all  the  appearance 
of  what  one  would  call  a  "Forty-niner."  He  had  a 
hare-lip  which  made  him  speak  with  a  nasal  twang 
that  seemed  to  proceed  from  some  place  between  the 
roof  of  his  mouth  and  the  back  of  his  nose.  The  letter 
"N"  was  the  dominating  note  in  his  words.  In  fact  he 
could  not  get  rid  of  it. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  moments'  stay,  while  gazing  at 
the  wash-stand,  he  said: 

"  'N*  what  are  you  lettin'  that  water  run  for?" 

I  felt  that  a  very  peculiar  situation,  and  one  difficult 
of  explanation,  had  arisen,  and  that  I  must  come  down 
to  his  level ;  so  I  said : 

"You  know  I  have  been  living  in  Rome  in  a  very 
lovely  spot.  There  was  a  fountain  in  the  garden.  I 
was  so  fond  of  it,  and  I  am  so  blue  here,  I  thought  I 
could  recall  Rome  by  letting  the  water  run  and  hearing 
that  same  sound.  Of  course  that  may  seem  strange  to 
you,  but  that  is  what  it  is." 

157 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

"'N'  is  it,  hey?  Is  it?  Now  I  know  where  'n' 
that  leak  has  been!  *N'  I  Ve  been  hunting  all  over  'n 
the  buildin'  to  find  it.  'N'  I  have  been  pumpin'  water 
up  here  for  three  weeks  and  wonderin'  where'n  blazes  it 
had  gone  to.  'N'  you  '11  have  to  'n'  let  up  on  that, 
young  man!" 

You  can  imagine  his  shoveling  coal  into  the  furnace 
below  in  order  to  increase  the  pressure  which  was  to 
supply  the  poet  upstairs  with  the  romantic  sound  neces- 
sary to  his  well-being.  You  can  still  further  imagine 
the  reduction  on  the  interest  of  the  German  depositors 
coming  from  this  extra  consumption. 

Another  incident  which  lent  diversity  to  this  dreary 
period  of  my  life  took  place  because  of  a  cast  made  by  a 
sculptor,  a  friend  of  mine,  who  occupied  an  adjoining 
room.  He  wished  to  model  a  bust,  and,  to  do  this,  pro- 
posed taking  a  mold  from  the  living  face  of  his  sitter. 
That  is  no  trifling  matter  even  to  an  expert,  and  it 
showed  the  boldness  of  the  novice,  since,  notwithstand- 
ing my  protestations,  my  friend  undertook  it  without 
ever  having  cast  anything  before.  He  wished  me  to 
help  him;  but  I  told  him  that  I  should  wash  my  hands 
of  the  affair  if  he  tried  it.     He  disappeared. 

Presently  he  rushed  into  my  room  crying,  "For 
Heaven's  sake,  come!" 

In  his  studio,  which  was  already  one  of  monumental 
disorder,  confusion,  and  dirt,  stretched  out  on  an  old 
sofa,  lay  his  subject  with  a  solid  mass  of  hard  plaster 
about  two  inches  thick  enveloping  his  head;  while  the 
whole  room,  wall,  ceiling,  boxes,  and  floor,  was  covered 

158 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

with  the  great  spatterings  of  the  plaster  thrown  wildly 
about  by  the  sculptor  in  the  course  of  this  extraordinary 
proceeding. 

There  were  the  usual  quills  in  the  sitter's  nose  but 
the  weight  of  the  cast  was  so  great  that  we  could  hear 
him  mumble  under  it,  praying  us  to  get  it  off  quickly  or 
he  would  die.  It  was  really  a  serious  business,  this  tak- 
ing it  off,  as  we  had  to  bang  at  the  plaster  with  chisel 
and  hammer.  Fortunately  there  was  no  ill  result,  other 
than  a  good  bit  of  the  subject's  eyelashes  being  torn 
away  and  his  clothes  ruined.  He  was  one  of  those 
happy  men,  however,  who  take  everything  with  cheer- 
fulness. The  death  of  my  tormentor  would  have  been 
my  only  satisfaction  had  I  undergone  the  sufferings  he 
was  put  to.* 

Here,  too,  in  the  German  Savings  Bank  Building, 
were  brought  to  me,  by  I  do  not  know  whom,  a  couple 
of  red-heads  who  have  been  thoroughly  mixed  up  in 
my  life  ever  since;  I  speak  of  Stanford  White  and 
Charles  F.  McKim.  White,  who  was  studying  with 
Richardson,  had  much  to  do  with  the  designing  of 
Trinity  Church  in  Boston.  He  was  drawn  to  me 
one  day,  as  he  ascended  the  German  Savings  Bank 
stairs,  by  hearing  me  bawl  the  "Andante"  of  Bee- 
thoven's Seventh  Symphony,  and  "The  Serenade"  from 
Mozart's  "Don  Giovanni."  He  was  a  great  lover  of 
music.     I  gave  a  false  impression,  for  my  knowledge 

*  My  uncle,  Mr.  Louis  Saint-Gaudens,  tells  me  that  the  sculptor  of  this 
story  was  Edmund  Palmer,  and  the  subject  Henry  Ward  Beecher. 

H.  St.-G. 

159 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

came  only  from  having  heard  the  "Andante"  from  Le 
Brethon,  ten  or  fifteen  years  before,  and  the  "Serenade" 
from  a  howling  Frenchman  in  the  Beaux  Arts  who 
could  shout  even  louder  than  I,  and  sang  it  in  a  sin- 
gularly devilish  and  comic  way.  McKim  I  met  later 
on.  A  devouring  love  for  ice-cream  brought  us  to- 
gether. 

Meanwhile,  my  affairs  remained  in  such  a  state  that 
I  did  some  teaching  which  required  fabulous  exertion; 
for  that  old  friend  of  my  father's,  Dr.  Agnew,  then  liv- 
ing on  the  Hudson  opposite  Dobbs  Ferry,  had  a  num- 
ber of  children  to  whom  I  gave  lessons  in  drawing.  It 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  started  out  at  daybreak  on  those 
hot  summer  days;  taking  the  cars  to  Dobbs  Ferry, 
where  I  stood  on  the  dock,  and,  with  a  string,  pulled 
a  wooden  arm  which  branched  out  of  the  top  of  a  pole 
to  indicate  to  the  man  with  a  boat  on  the  other  bank  of 
the  river,  a  mile  or  two  away,  that  somebody  wanted  to 
cross.  Then  an  approaching  speck  on  the  water  became 
the  ferryman,  who  had  seen  the  sign  and  was  coming 
over  to  take  me  back.  On  landing  I  climbed  a  steep 
hill  in  the  hot  sun,  and  taught  the  young  pupils,  who, 
I  am  afraid,  were  not  as  much  interested  in  what  I  said 
as  they  should  have  been.  They  have  since  become 
among  the  most  charming  of  my  friends.  After  an 
hour  or  so  with  them,  I  descended  the  hill,  crossed  the 
river  in  the  row-boat,  took  the  train,  which  deposited 
me  at  Thirtieth  Street  on  the  North  River,  and  walked 
over  to  Twenty-third  Street,  where  I  arrived  at  one 
o'clock  more  dead  than  alive. 

160 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

The  necessity  of  teaching,  the  usual  lack  of  money, 
came  at  this  time,  not  so  much  through  my  old  habit  of 
underestimating  expenses  as  through  the  failure  of  a 
number  of  commissions  to  materialize  after  I  had  spent 
many  weeks  in  seeking  them.  For  instance,  I  was  en- 
couraged to  begin  a  statue  of  Sergeant  Jasper  planting 
the  flag  on  the  redoubt  at  Fort  Moultrie,  South  Caro- 
lina, yet  this  eventually  went  the  way  of  those  inspira- 
tions which  I  had  had  in  Rome.  But  one  direct  result 
of  the  various  kinds  of  sculpture  I  executed  at  that  time 
compensated  for  all  my  failures.  I  speak  of  my  first 
associations  with  Mr.  John  La  Farge  in  the  execution 
of  the  "King"  monument  to  go  in  the  cemetery  at  New- 
port, Rhode  Island.  Part  of  the  work  I  modeled  in 
Mr.  La  Farge's  studio  in  that  town.  It  was  absolutely 
his  design,  and  possessed  that  singular  grace,  elevation, 
nobility,  and  distinction  which  is  characteristic  of  what- 
ever he  has  touched.  I  was  the  tool  that  modeled  for 
him  then,  as  I  was  subsequently  in  the  painting  I  did  for 
him  as  an  assistant  in  his  decoration  of  Trinity  Church 
in  Boston.  Those  again  were  great  days,  for  he  had 
with  him  at  that  time  Mr.  Francis  Lathrop,  Mr.  Frank 
Millet,  and  Mr.  George  Maynard. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  my  intimacy  with  La  Farge 
has  been  a  spur  to  higher  endeavor,  equal  to,  if  not 
greater  than  any  other  I  have  received  from  outside 
sources.  Those  who  have  had  the  honor  of  knowing 
him  can  at  once  understand  this  statement.  I  am  not 
able,  however,  to  mention  with  good  taste  all  that  I 
feel  and  would  like  to  say  about  his  influence.     Neither 

161 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

can  I  explain  the  many  ways  in  which  he  assisted  me, 
though  perhaps  the  most  definitely  helpful  moment  of 
all  fell  one  afternoon  in  the  sad  studio  in  the  German 
Savings  Bank  Building,  when  he  saw  some  of  my  casts 
of  the  Pisani  reliefs  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  when, 
to  my  expressed  despair  of  ever  attempting  to  do  me- 
dallions after  looking  at  those  achievements,  he  said 
quietly  and  incisively, 

"Why  not?  I  don't  see  why  you  should  not  do  as 
well." 

This  is  no  doubt  the  reason  I  have  modeled  so  many 
medallions  since,  yet  I  fear  I  have  fallen  far  short  of 
what  promise  he  saw  in  me. 

Through  La  Farge,  then,  a  period  was  finally  placed 
to  the  bad  conditions  of  my  affairs,  for  promptly  more 
good  luck  followed.  To  begin  with,  one  day  when  I 
had  occasion  to  see  Governor  Morgan,  he  said  to  me, 
after  questioning  me  about  some  old  sketches  I  had 
made: 

"I  think  there  is  a  statue  of  Admiral  Farragut  to  be 
erected  in  New  York.  Do  you  know  anything  about 
it?" 

"No." 

"Go  and  see  Cisco." 

Mr.  John  J.  Cisco  was  a  banker  very  prominent  in 
affairs  at  that  time.  I  took  Governor  Morgan's  advice 
and  visited  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Cisco,  "we  have  eight  thousand  dol- 
lars for  a  statue  to  Farragut,  but,  before  deciding  to 
whom  it  is  to  go,  we  shall  have  to  have  a  meeting." 

162 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

A  meeting  followed  in  a  few  days,  and  subsequently 
Governor  Morgan  told  me  that,  to  his  great  surprise, 
the  work  had  been  awarded  to  me,  but  "only  by  the  skin 
of  the  teeth,"  five  of  the  committee  having  voted  for  giv- 
ing the  commission  to  a  sculptor  of  high  distinction, 
while  six  of  them  voted  for  me.  Again  another  glo- 
rious day! 

With  that  the  tide  turned  wholly  in  my  favor,  for 
upon  my  success  in  obtaining  this  commission  Governor 
Dix,  to  whose  family  my  father  was  furnishing  shoes, 
immediately  asked  if  I  would  model  a  statue  of  Robert 
Richard  Randall,  for  Sailors'  Snug  Harbor,  Staten  Is- 
land. So  that  before  I  knew  it  I  had  the  making  of 
two  public  monuments,  while  to  cap  all,  La  Farge  com- 
missioned me  to  execute  those  bas-reliefs  for  St.  Thomas' 
Church,  which  along  with  his  master-pieces  on  each  side 
of  them,  were  destroyed  by  fire. 

The  receipt  of  these  commissions,  the  Farragut  and 
the  Randall,  settled  another  serious  question  which  had 
been  pending  for  a  long  while,  my  marriage.  This  took 
place  at  once,  on  June  4th,  1877,  at  Roxbury,  Massa- 
chusetts. My  wife  and  I  came  back  to  New  York  on 
the  following  day,  and  the  next  morning  sailed  for  Liv- 
erpool, just  in  time  to  see  the  last  two  days  of  the 
French  Salon. 

This  trip  formed  again  a  marked  turning-point  in  my 
life.  Yet  before  dwelling  upon  it,  let  me  mention  the 
one  great  New  York  interest,  outside  of  my  work, 
which  had  been  growing  in  my  mind  through  my  stay 
there,  to  culminate  just  before  my  departure.     I  speak 

163 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

of  the  Society  of  American  Artists,  my  concern  in 
which  originated  through  one  of  my  Roman  sketches, 
the  only  one  which  endured;  the  others  had  gone  to  the 
oblivion  they  deserved.  The  composition  was  that  of  a 
young  girl  lying  on  her  face  on  a  low  couch,  dandling 
an  infant  in  her  arms.  As  I  recall  it,  and  from  the 
pen-and-ink  drawing  I  still  possess — no,  that  also  went 
in  the  fire  which  burned  my  studio — it  had  an  ingenuous 
charm  that  I  doubt  very  much  my  ability  to  achieve  to- 
day. This  sketch  I  had  brought  with  me  to  America, 
and  its  rejection  by  the  National  Academy  of  Design 
so  angered  me  that,  with  four  or  five  others  in  the  same 
recalcitrant  state  of  mind,  I  joined  the  group  which 
founded  the  Society  of  American  Artists.  After  years 
of  increasing  success,  that  society  is  merging  back  into 
the  Academy  of  Design,  enmity  to  which  brought  it 
into  existence.  The  field  is  open  for  another  society  of 
younger,  protesting  men. 

It  is  only  proper  to  add  that  the  rejection  of  the 
sketch  was  justifiable.  It  was  entirely  too  unfinished 
a  product  to  be  exhibited,  particularly  considering  the 
general  attitude  of  artists  at  that  time. 

My  father's  meeting  with  John  La  Farge,  as  he  has  said, 
was  certainly  of  vast  importance  to  him.  Therefore  it  is  well 
to  correct  even  the  slight  error  the  mist  of  years  caused  Saint- 
Gaudens  to  make  in  his  explanation  of  how  he  came  to  meet 
the  great  decorator.  It  was  the  Trinity  Church  work,  not 
that  in  Newport,  which  introduced  the  sculptor  to  the  painter. 
A  letter  from  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Oliver  Emerson,  sheds  some  light 
upon  this  former  fact.     She  says: 

164 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

"At  this  time  the  new  Trinity  Church,  in  Boston,  was  being 
built  by  Richardson,  La  Farge  having  charge  of  the  decora- 
tion of  the  interior.  Several  artists  assisted  him,  among  them, 
to  a  limited  extent,  your  father,  who,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
painted  the  seated  figure  with  an  open  book,  which  is  called 
St.  James,  in  the  lunette  in  the  half  of  the  church  towards 
Boylston  Street,  not  far  from  the  main  entrance,  and  worked 
on  the  figure  of  St.  Paul,  the  large  figure  at  one  side  of  the 
chancel  arch.  I  have  an  idea  that  he  regarded  this  trial  at 
fresco  painting  somewhat  in  the  light  of  an  experiment,  but  I 
am  not  sure.     .     .     ." 

The  King  tomb  came  later  and  was  mostly  carried  out  by 
my  father  in  Paris.  During  these  two  New  York  years  the 
commission  was  of  interest  only  in  producing  an  exchange,  be- 
tween my  father  and  La  Farge,  of  letters  which  show  that 
the  mutual  esteem  the  two  men  held  for  each  other  was  as  real 
at  that  time  as  when  the  reminiscences  were  written. 

Mr.  La  Farge  wrote: 
My  dear  Mr.  St -Gaudens : 

.  .  I  hope  you  are  getting  on  well,  but  take  your  own 
way  and  time.  I  only  regret  having  been  led  by  the  force  of 
events  to  inflict  myself  so  much  on  you,  and  to  have  made  you 
use  up  so  much  valuable  time.  I  shall  do  my  best  that  it  may 
be  no  serious  detriment  to  you,  and  shall  try  to  have  it  at  least 
compensated.     No  news  here  as  yet. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

La  Farge. 

To  which  my  father  answered: 

My  dear  Mr.  La  Farge: 

.  .  .  I  only  regret  that  I  cannot  remain  here  and 
have  it  in  my  studio  a  year  or  so,  in  order  to  do  it  to 
your  heart's  content,  which  would  be  mine  too.  I  'm 
afraid  Mrs.  King  would  not  see  that  though. 

165 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

As  to  your  "infliction"  I  wish  to  tell  you  frankly  and 
sincerely,  particularly  as  I  fear  that  from  my  nervous- 
ness and  irritableness  on  some  days  you  may  have  had  a 
different  impression,  that,  as  I  said  before,  my  peculiar 
position  requiring  haste  where  time  and  thought  were 
necessary  was  what  bothered  me,  and  nothing  else.  I 
feel  that  I  owe  more  to  you  in  an  artistic  sense  than  to 
any  man  I  ever  met.  And,  believe  me,  it  is  my  great- 
est regret  that  by  leaving  the  country  I  am  to  end  a 
close  artistic  connection  with  you. 

I  should  like  to  do  work  with  you  and  have  such  work 
for  years  in  the  studio  without  any  money  consideration 
whatever,  and  I  trust  that  if  I  secure  this  other  order  I 
may  make  myself  enough  of  an  income  to  be  able  to 
work  in  that  way. 

In  the  matter  of  the  Farragut,  also,  my  father  underesti- 
mated the  case.  For  the  real  incident  was  by  no  means  as  brief 
as  he  describes  it.  He  had  already  made  a  sketch  of  Farra- 
gut's  head  in  Rome,  both  through  a  vague  hope  of  obtaining 
the  monument  and  because  of  an  interest  which  he  sustained 
through  life,  writing  on  one  occasion  to  Mr.  Charles  Keck: 
"I  have  such  respect  and  admiration  for  the  heroes  of  the 
Civil  War  that  I  consider  it  my  duty  to  help  in  any  way  to 
commemorate  them  in  a  noble  and  dignified  fashion  worthy  of 
their  great  service."  But  after  his  return  to  this  land,  what 
became  of  more  immediate  moment  to  him  than  this  latter  al- 
truistic consideration  was  the  fact  that  my  grandfather, 
Thomas  J.  Homer,  was  unwilling  that  my  mother  and  father 
be  married  until  he  had  received  at  least  one  important  com- 
mission. Of  course,  too,  as  he  often  remarked  afterwards, 
like  most  young  men,  he  was  in  desperate  fear  lest  some  one 
steal  his  ideas,  not  until  years  later  evolving  his  motto,  "You 

166 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

can  do  anything  you  please.  It 's  the  way  it 's  done  that 
makes  the  difference."  So  the  plans  and  counter-plans  di- 
rected towards  securing  the  work  were  forwarded  with  that 
unrelenting  energy  which  brought  about  the  turning-point  in 
his  career  and  later  placed  him  at  the  head  of  his  profession. 
Fortunately  for  this  book,  while  my  mother  was  upon  a  trip 
to  the  Azores,  at  this  time,  my  father  found  himself  on  suffi- 
ciently cordial  relations  with  his  father-  and  mother-in-law- 
to-be  to  carry  on  with  them  a  frank  and  intimate  correspond- 
ence, typical  of  his  frame  of  mind  toward  the  whole  situation. 
I  will  give  three  of  these  letters  to  Mrs.  Homer: 

.  .  .  Governor  Morgan's  interest  in  me  has  in- 
creased a  great  deal  and  he  seems  to  have  a  decided 
liking  for  me.  He  has  tried  twice  to  get  John  J.  Cisco 
to  come  up  to  see  the  figure  and  has  finally  succeeded. 
To-morrow  he  goes  to  get  him  with  his  carriage  to  bring 
him  to  my  place ;  Governor  Morgan  liked  the  Farragut 
sketch  a  great  deal.  He  gave  me  a  nice  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  Mr.  Appleton  who  came  the  day  after  I  saw 
him.  He  thought  the  figure  very  fine,  asked  me  the  price 
I  proposed  doing  it  for,  and  said  he  would  talk  to  the 
other  members  of  the  Committee.  Also  Mr.  Moore, 
my  friend's  brother,  is  the  intimate  friend  of  General 
Shaler  and  he  sent  him  up  to  me.  He  also  spoke  very 
highly  of  Farragut  and  offered  to  lend  me  a  little 
statuette  of  Farragut  that  he  had.  He  is  going  to  bring 
it  to  me  himself.  He  said,  "I  want  to  help  you  be- 
cause you  are  a  young  man.  If  you  were  an  old  man  I 
would  let  you  stand  on  your  own  legs."  He  was  very 
cordial.  He  told  me  that  Mr.  Montgomery  was  the 
man  I  should  have.     Now  Mr.  Montgomery  is  the  inti- 

167 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

mate  friend  of  both  Mr.  Messenger,  who  takes  a  great  in- 
terest in  me,  and  Mr.  Moore,  my  friend  who  sent  Gen- 
eral Shaler.  Mr.  Evarts  gave  me  a  card  of  introduc- 
tion to  Governor  Dix  whom  I  saw.  He  came  the  next 
day,  thought  my  sketch  very  fine,  and  admired  greatly 
several  drawings  of  mine,  beside  the  busts  of  Messrs. 
Evarts  and  Woolsey  (which  all  the  above  gentlemen  be- 
side himself  were  very  prodigal  of  superlatives  about). 
He,  Governor  Dix,  also  invited  me  to  his  house.  I  went 
last  night  and  remained  till  eleven  P.  M.  They  were 
very  warm  in  their  demonstrations  of  friendship,  both 
he  and  Mrs.  Dix.  They  said:  "Come  to  see  us,  come 
often  and  tell  us  how  you  are  getting  along."  And 
Mrs.  Dix  added,  "And  if  there  is  anything  in  the  world 
We  can  do  for  you,  let  us  know."  So  you  see  I  have 
very  good  reasons  for  being  hopeful  for  the  Farragut, 
though  it  will  be  spring  before  any  action  will  probably 
be  taken.  The  return  of  Messrs.  Montgomery  and 
Grinnell  will  take  place  then.  Of  the  former  I  am 
sure,  also  of  the  latter  through  a  friend  of  Mr.  Moore's 
and  Governor  Morgan's  recommendation.  General 
MacDowell,  the  other  member  of  the  Committee,  will 
come  to  see  me  at  the  desire  of  Mr.  Stoughton,  on  his 
arrival  in  the  city,  so  I  have  surely  Cisco,  Shaler,  Dix, 
Appleton,  and  almost  certainly  Montgomery,  Mac- 
Dowell, and  Grinnell.  The  only  member  I  have  any 
doubt  about  is  Marshall  C.  Roberts.     .     .     . 

May  31st— 76. 
.     .     .     I  have  had  two  good  things  happen  in  regard 
to  the  Farragut.     First :  Governor  Dix  is  very  friendly 

168 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

to  me;  indeed  he  told  Mr.  Cisco  that  he  intended 
telling  Mr.  Grinnell,  the  chairman  whose  dilatory  and 
procrastinating  habits  are  the  cause  of  all  the  delay, 
that  he  must  either  take  immediate  action,  or  resign  his 
position  so  that  others  might  act.  This  I  consider  as 
very  favorable  to  me.  Second  Mr.  Ward,  the  "big 
sculptor"  here,  whose  word  is  almost  law  in  art  matters, 
told  me  last  night  that  he  would  squeeze  in  a  word  for 
me.  Beside  this  I  have  very  strong  and  direct  in- 
fluence bearing  on  both  these  gentlemen,  and,  in  fact, 
on  all  but  one  or  two  members  of  the  Committee.  On 
Sunday  or  Monday  Mr.  McClure,  a  strong  friend  of 
mine,  and  of  the  greatest  influence  with  two  members 
of  the  committee,  arrives  from  Europe.  My  chances 
could  scarcely  be  brighter.  Nevertheless,  I  do  not 
hope  too  much.  If  I  fail  I  will  have  my  mind  clear  on 
one  point.  I  have  never  moved  around  about  anything 
as  I  have  about  this.  I  have  made  two  models,  a  large 
drawing  and  a  bust,  and  I  have  not  allowed  the  slight- 
est or  most  remote  chance  for  my  bringing  influence  to 
bear  to  escape  me.  I  cannot  think  of  a  step  that  I 
have  neglected  to  take.  As  far  as  I  can  see  I  am  in  a 
very  fair  way  to  have  the  commission,  and  events  would 
have  to  take  a  very  unusual  and  unexpected  turn  for 
it  to  be  otherwise.     .     .     . 

Friday,  June  16th,  1876. 
From  what  Gussie  wrote  me  I  believe  she  must  have 
left  Fayal  on  Monday  of  this  week  and  that  prob- 
ably twelve  or  fourteen  days  more  will  find  her  in  Bos- 

169 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

ton.  I  would  feel  obliged  if  you  would  telegraph  me 
when  you  receive  news  of  her  arrival  at  New  Bedford. 
I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  no  good  news  in  regard  to  the 
Farragut  for  her  when  she  comes.  In  fact,  I  am  afraid 
that  that  affair  is  done  for.  I  saw  Moses  Grinnell  the 
other  night.  He  said  that  he  had  seen  Ben.  H.  Field, 
the  only  member  of  the  Committee  that  I  have  had 
reason  to  complain  of,  and  two  or  three  others  of  the 
Committee,  and  that  they  thought  that  it  would  be  bet- 
ter for  them  to  wait  until  they  had  a  larger  sum  of 
money.  Also  he  said  a  great  many  other  things  the 
gist  of  which  was  discouraging.  Nevertheless  there  is 
still  a  chance  as  nothing  has  been  decided  by  the  Com- 
mittee officially  and  I  am  sure  that  three  of  the  Com- 
mittee out  of  the  six,  for  the  others  are  all  absent,  want 
the  thing  done  now.  So  on  the  day  of  the  meeting  I 
will  present  an  offer  to  do  it  for  twelve  thousand  dol- 
lars, the  sum  they  have  in  hand.  Mr.  Grinnell  told 
me  that  he  Was  not  going  away  until  August,  but  I 
believe  that  there  are  some  of  the  "big"  sculptors  here 
at  the  bottom  of  it. 

After  this  remark  about  "big  sculptors,"  and  in  view  of 
my  father's  own  lifelong  anxiety  to  help  younger  men,  I  am 
glad  of  the  opportunity  to  record  the  fact  that  the  Farragut 
Commission  ultimately  came  to  Saint-Gaudens  through  the  aid 
of  Mr.  J.  Q.  A.  Ward.  When  the  time  for  the  final  decision 
arrived,  in  December,  1876,  I  understand  that,  upon  the  com- 
mittee first  voting  six  for  Ward  and  five  for  Saint-Gaudens, 
Ward  declined  to  accept  the  offer  and  most  generously  used  all 
his  influence  towards  having  the  work  given  to  his  rival.  Here 
is  what  my  father  wrote  to  Mr.  Ward: 

170 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

153  Fourth  Ave.,  June  26,  1876. 
Dear  Mr.  Ward: 

I  am  about  to  make  a  proposal  for  the  Farragut,  and 
I  believe  my  chances  would  be  increased  a  great  deal 
could  I  refer  to  you  for  an  opinion  in  regard  to  my  past 
work  and  my  general  ability.  I  know  it 's  a  very  deli- 
cate request  to  make,  still  as  you  were  kind  enough  to 
express  your  wish  to  say  a  good  word  for  me,  I  would 
be  very  desirous  to  take  advantage  of  your  kind  feel- 
ing. I  think  though  it  would  be  hardly  fair  for  me  to 
ask  you  this  until  you  have  seen  more  of  my  work,  and 
if  you  will  make  an  appointment  I  might  go  with  you 
to  Governor  Morgan's  any  day  as  early  or  as  late  as  you 
please.  You  would  simply  see  the  figure,  and  would 
in  no  way  be  intruding  on  the  Governor.  Or  you  can 
call  there  yourself.  By  your  presenting  the  enclosed 
card  the  steward  will  show  you  the  figure.  I  must  re- 
peat that  I  do  not  wish  to  place  you  in  a  disagreeable 
position,  and  for  this  reason  let  me  assure  you  that  there 
would  not  be  the  slightest  ill-feeling  if  after  you  had 
seen  my  work  you  should  not  feel  justified  in  giving 
any  opinion  of  my  ability. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Aug.  St.-Gaudens. 

To  which  Ward  replied: 

My  dear  Sir: 

I  have  not  yet  had  time  to  see  your  statue  at  Governor 
Morgan's.  But  I  saw  the  "Silence"  at  the  Masonic  Temple 
last  week.  With  reference  to  the  proposed  statue  of  Farra- 
gut I  sincerely  hope  that  the  gentlemen  of  the  Committee  in 

171 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

charge  of  the  affair  will  commission  you  to  do  the  work.  If 
you  think  that  any  reference  to  me  in  the  matter  would  assist 
them  in  coming  to  such  a  conclusion,  I  should  most  cheerfully 
express  my  faith  in  your  ability  to  give  them  an  earnest  and 
most  interesting  statue.  You  can  refer  to  me  in  any  way 
you  choose.  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Field  about  the  matter  some 
three  or  four  weeks  ago. 

Very  truly  yours, 

J.  Q.  A.  Wabd. 

So  much  for  the  Farragut ;  in  regard  to  the  Randall  monu- 
ment, I  will  give  portions  of  two  drafts  of  letters  which  set 
forth  some  of  my  father's  ideas  that  he  was  not  permitted  to 
carry  out  in  this  commission.     He  writes: 

Rev.  Dr.  Dix: 

.  .  .  The  absence  of  all  information  in  regard  to 
Mr.  Randall  makes  it  next  to  impossible  to  produce  a 
portrait  of  his  figure.  I  do  not  think  of  any  suffi- 
ciently important  association  with  his  work  to  justify 
making  an  ideal  statue  of  him.  A  simple  statue  of  a 
man  particularly  restricts  an  artist  in  the  treatment  of 
the  character  of  his  subject  and  this  becomes  even  worse 
when  there  is  added  to  it  the  difficulty  of  dealing  with 
the  unpicturesqueness  of  the  modern  costume.  An 
allegorical  treatment  besides  being  much  superior  in  ar- 
tistic beauty,  leaves  a  greater  scope  for  the  imagination, 
thereby  allowing  a  fuller  and  more  satisfactory  re- 
sult.    .     .     . 

Again : 

.  .  .  I  would  represent  Captain  Randall  step- 
ping from  his  cabin,  his  hat  in  his  right  hand,  at  the 

172 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

same  moment  taking  up  his  telescope.  In  my  sketch  I 
have  not  given  him  a  more  distinctive  nautical  charac- 
ter as  I  have  not  had  time  to  search  the  proper  author- 
ity for  that.  I  learn  that  I  can  obtain  whatever  data 
I  may  need  in  that  direction  at  New  Bedford  and 
other  New  England  ports.  The  birds  at  the  corners 
of  the  pedestals  are  to  be  sea-gulls.  The  whole  charac- 
ter of  the  support  can  very  easily  be  made  more  nautical 
when  seriously  studied,  the  pedestal,  having  its  charm 
in  simplicity,  giving  the  proportions  necessary  to  ac- 
company the  figure. 

On  the  sides  can  be  placed  whatever  inscription  the 
committee  may  desire,  the  principal  one  going  in  front 
if  necessary,  instead  of  the  anchor.  Bas-reliefs  such 
as  I  suggested  in  the  first  proposal  sent  in,  and  at  the 
same  extra  cost,  can  be  placed  on  the  sides. 

The  first  sketch,  with  the  figure  of  Benevolence,  can 
be  treated  so  as  to  be  much  more  nautical  in  character 
by  the  suggestion  in  the  accessories.  I  did  not  have 
that  idea  in  mind  when  I  made  the  drawing. 

I  also  inclose  a  rapid  sketch  made  to-day  in  which 
I  have  the  pedestal  as  a  fountain  with  two  mermaids, 
which  might  be  tritons  if  thought  best,  sustaining  a 
tablet  bearing  Captain  Randall's  name,  the  water  to 
come  splashing  against  them.     .     .     . 

Such  was  the  fashion,  then,  in  which  my  father  sought  a 
footing  with  all  the  energy  of  his  high-strung,  earnest  nature. 
Yet  in  spite  of  this,  four  other  attempts  failed.  The  first  of 
these  commissions  was  for  a  bas-relief  of  Mr.  Joseph  Ridgway 
of  St.  Louis,  modeled  for  his  widow.     The  entire  family,  ex- 

173 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

cepting  this  lady,  her  son-in-law,  and  two  grandchildren,  had 
recently  died,  and,  just  as  my  father  had  almost  completed  his 
work,  the  four  sailed  for  Germany  and  were  lost  at  sea  on 
the  Schiller.  No  one  remained  who  was  sufficiently  interested 
in  having  the  medallion  made  permanent  in  marble  or  bronze. 

The  second  failure,  an  effort  to  obtain  the  order  for  a 
statue  of  Charles  Sumner,  caused  Saint-Gaudens  to  enter  his 
only  competition.  His  seated  model,  about  two  and  one-half 
feet  high,  represented  Sumner  in  his  senator's  chair,  his  head 
thrown  back  and  a  little  to  one  side,  one  hand  vigorously 
braced  against  an  arm  of  the  chair,  as  if  he  were  about  to 
rise  and  speak  in  earnest  debate,  the  other  hand  holding  a 
scroll.  The  pose  was  full  of  action,  too  full,  my  father  used 
to  say,  laughing  to  himself.  He  worked  upon  it  all  one 
spring  in  the  office  of  his  future  father-in-law,  Mr.  Thomas 
J.  Homer,  in  the  Studio  Building  of  Boston,  Massachusetts. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  the  Committee,  which  had  hitherto 
insisted  upon  a  seated  figure,  brushed  aside  all  the  submitted 
designs  and  competitors,  and  gave  the  order  to  another  for  a 
standing  figure.  The  lack  of  faith  shown  by  those  in  charge 
so  angered  my  father  that  he  not  only  never  again  went  into 
a  competition,  but  even  refused  to  submit  sketches  of  any 
idea  until  a  work  had  been  definitely  awarded  him;  while  with 
the  tenacity  with  which  he  clung  to  any  thought  or  feeling, 
he  fought  through  all  his  life,  and  up  to  the  month  of  his 
death,  for  some  just  method  of  guiding  competitions  in  this 
country,  so  that  younger  sculptors  should  have  fairer  oppor- 
tunities. 

The  third  and  fourth  commissions  that  my  father  vainly 
sought  never  even  reached  the  stage  of  the  preceding  ones  which 
I  have  named.  Yet  I  will  insert  portions  of  drafts  of  letters 
dealing  with  both  of  them.  The  first  letter,  sent  in  March, 
1876,  to  Professor  Gardner,  regarding  the  monument  to  Ser- 
geant Jaspar  already  mentioned,  is  interesting  as  an  example 
of  the  care  and  detail  with  which  my  father  planned  his  work. 

174 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

The  second  letter,  to  Hon.  William  M.  Evarts,  shows  vividly 
the  sacrifices  the  young  sculptor  was  ready  to  make  in  the  in- 
terests of  his  art. 

To  Professor  Gardner  my  father  wrote: 

Dear  Sir: 

.  .  .  The  "hair"  part  of  your  letter  is  particularly 
interesting  to  me.  As  you  suggested,  I  am  making 
him  without  the  hat.  I  trust  you  will  not  think  me 
annoying  if  I  ask  you  a  question  or  two  more.  I  be- 
lieve that  the  uniform  you  described  was  ordered  some- 
time after  the  battle  of  Fort  Moultrie,  and  conse- 
quently he  did  not  have  it.  Was  there  any  uniform 
before  that  time?  Was  the  sword  worn  ever  by  a  ser- 
geant at  the  end  of  one  of  the  cross  belt  straps?  Might 
it  not  have  been  attached  to  the  belt  around  the  center 
of  the  body?  I  have  seen  pictures  in  which  I  find 
Marion's  men  with  a  different  uniform,  a  kind  of  skull 
cap  and  a  sort  of  jacket  and  boots.  Is  there  any  au- 
thority for  this?  And  might  I  not  make  my  sergeant 
with  socks,  and  still  be  within  the  truth  on  account  of 
the  irregularity  of  the  uniform?  I  also  desire  to  know 
if  there  was  not  a  collar  attached  to  the  ordinary  shirt 
worn  at  the  time  by  the  country  people. 

While  to  Senator  Evarts  he  sent  the  following: 

.  .  .  Mr.  Gibbs  suggests  that  I  ought  to  state  in 
a  note  to  you,  what  my  wishes  are  in  relation  to  the 
figure  of  Chancellor  Kent,  about  which  you  were  good 
enough  to  speak  to  him  in  my  interest.  I  would  be 
very  glad  indeed  to  make  the  proposed  figure,  success 

175 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

in  which  would,  I  feel  sure,  greatly  aid  me  in  my  career. 
I  am  fully  aware  that  at  my  age,  with  so  few  large 
works  to  point  to,  I  must  be  content  to  labor  for  repu- 
tation. If,  in  the  preparation  of  any  important  com- 
mission likely  to  enhance  my  reputation,  I  could,  by 
the  liberality  of  any  friend,  be  indemnified  against 
actual  loss,  I  would  consider  that  I  had  been  greatly 
the  gainer. 

If  you  should  feel  disposed  to  order  the  figure  I 
would  at  once  undertake  it,  and  would  go  on  and  com- 
plete it  without  delay,  accepting  for  it  its  cost  to  me. 
I  am  sure  that  if  I  am  successful,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  I  shall  be  so,  in  making  a  creditable  work,  its  ex- 
hibition will  go  very  far  to  establish  my  reputation 
here.  I  think  I  could  complete  the  model  in  six  or 
eight  months.  I  would  be  willing  to  practise  every 
economy  and  accept  for  the  completed  work  the  amount 
of  the  actual  expenses.  These  would  be  vouched  for 
by  receipted  bills  as  usual.  The  cost  would  be  less 
than  one-fourth  the  sum  a  competent  artist  would  de- 
mand if  an  order  were  given  for  such  a  figure,  less  than 
one-fourth  the  sum  paid  by  Congress  for  statues  of  the 
same  class.     .     .     . 

I  would  esteem  it  a  great  advantage  to  be  allowed 
to  make  this  farther  step  in  my  career  with  your  gen- 
erous assistance.     .     .     . 

So  much  for  the  individual  commissions  and  their  specific 
disappointments.  Surrounding  these  major  problems  were  a 
multitude  of  minor  difficulties  that  produced  still  further  anx- 
iety and  stress.     Taken  as  a  group,  they  are  well  described 

176 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

in  still  others  of  his  letters  which  he  wrote  my  mother  and  her 
parents.  I  will  give  portions  of  five.  The  first  is  to  my 
mother : 

314  Fourth  Avenue,  Wednesday  Evening, 

March  17,  1875. 

.  .  .  I  shall  go  to  Boston  where  I  shall  stay  six 
weeks,  the  time  necessary  to  make  the  sketch,  and  then 
return  here.  Therefore  I  shall  then  have  ample  time 
to  run  around,  and  ample  time  to  execute  the  orders  I 
have.  I  shall  also  have  the  sketches  here  by  that  time, 
and  as  the  Academy  Exhibits  will  be  going  on,  I  shall 
have  there  the  busts  of  Messrs.  Evarts  and  Stoughton. 
"The  Indian"  will  also  be  here.  Now  what  I  propose 
to  do,  if  I  am  unsuccessful  during  the  summer  in  getting 
other  orders,  is  to  rent  a  studio  here  and  model  a  sketch 
of  Columbus  or  Gutenberg  or  the  "Farragut,"  and  on 
that  sketch  try  and  get  a  commission  so  as  to  have  it 
presented  to  the  Central  Park.  For  I  almost  despair 
of  receiving  any  orders  on  the  sketches  that  are  coming 
over.  They  are  not  finished  enough  I  am  afraid.  The 
more  I  go  around  the  more  I  see  how  little  the  public 
comprehends,  and  how  necessary  it  is  that  a  sketch  be 
highly  polished  for  them  to  understand  it.  We  shall 
see.  The  photos  of  my  sketches  decidedly  make  im- 
pressions only  on  artists.     .     .     . 

I  saw  Mrs.  Ridgway  and  she  showed  me  the  likeness 
that  she  wished  to  have,  and  asked  me  the  price.  I 
told  her,  for  a  medallion  three  hundred  dollars,  and 
for  two  of  the  same  five  hundred  dollars.  She  said 
she  would  tell  me  on  Thursday,  to-morrow.     It  is  a 

177 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

very  easy  head  to  do,  and  in  case  she  should  give  me  the 
order  it  will  be  the  most  profitable  commission  I  have 
ever  received. 

I  felt  very  "blue"  indeed  yesterday,  and  I  am  glad 
I  could  not  find  time  to  write  you.  First  of  all  there 
had  been  a  misunderstanding  in  regard  to  the  bust  of 
Ericsson  for  Mr.  Sargent.  He  assured  me  that  he  had 
not  authorized  Mr.  Stoughton  to  give  me  an  order  for 
it,  and  said  he  would  see  him  to-day.  Mr.  Stoughton 
told  me  to-day  it  was  a  mistake  but  that  it  was  all  right 
as  he,  Mr.  Sargent,  was  going  to  present  it  to  the 
"Historical  Society." 

I  paid  a  visit  to  Mr.  Evarts  night  before  last  to 
solicit  his  support  in  the  competition.  He  did  not 
treat  me  as  nicely  as  I  should  wish.  But  it  is  his  man- 
ner. He  is  imperious  with  everybody,  and  I  know 
that,  although  he  is  not  over  amiable  with  me,  never- 
theless, he  does  all  in  his  power  for  a  person,  and  will 
for  me.  When  we  were  through  with  my  conversation, 
he  ended  by  saying  that  he  did  not  know  what  I 
wanted,  that  a  competition  was  to  take  place  and  that 
it  was  to  be  awarded  to  the  best.  Then  I  riled  up  and 
answered  him  right  up  and  down  that  all  the  competi- 
tions in  the  country  were  apparently  fair  ones.     .     .     . 

The  remainder  of  the  letter  is  missing.  In  it,  by  the  way, 
my  father  was  quite  correct  in  his  estimate  of  Senator  Evarts. 
For  at  about  this  time  the  statesman  wrote  to  Mr.  Homer 
concerning  his  future  son-in-law:  "All  I  know  of  the  young 
man  is  greatly  to  his  credit.  I  predict  for  him  a  brilliant 
future." 

178 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Again  Saint-Gaudens  writes,  on  this  occasion  to  Mrs. 
Homer  :• 

Thursday,  Dec.  23rd,  1875. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Homer: 

I  have  never  been  so  occupied  and  pressed  for  time 
as  I  have  been  since  I  left  Boston.  I  have  tried  to 
write  often,  but  one  thing  or  another  has  stopped  me, 
not  seldom  the  reason  was  my  being  discouraged. 
"Up  and  down,"  "up  and  down,"  all  the  time.     .     .     . 

Governor  Morgan  did  not  come  to  the  studio  at  the 
time  he  promised,  a  young  lady  who  wanted  model- 
ing lessons  did  not  come  when  she  promised,  etc.,  etc. 
But  here  is  all  that  has  taken  place.  I  now  have  a  pu- 
pil in  modeling,  a  Mrs.  Swinburne,  who  comes  every 
morning  and  pays  me  fifty  dollars  a  month.  I  very 
probably  am  going  to  have  others.  To-night  I  have 
news  of  the  arrival  of  the  Samuel  Johnson  bust.  The 
money  which  I  'm  to  receive  on  it  will  take  my  "Si- 
lence" out.  I  have  no  further  news  from  Mr.  Evarts. 
Mrs.  Farragat  has  not  come  to  see  me.  The  gentle- 
man from  whom  I  expected  the  order  for  a  bust  did 
not  give  it  to  me.  And  finally  Governor  Morgan 
came  to  the  studio  and  found  the  project  for  his  tomb 
beautiful  but  too  dear.  The  architect,  contrary  to  my 
desire  and  because  he  wished  to  make  a  larger  job  of  it, 
elaborated  the  most  expensive  design,  and  passed  over 
in  a  very  rough  manner  the  two  others  that  came  within 
the  limit  Mr.  Morgan  had  mentioned.  .  .  .  He 
said  now  he  had  seen  that  fine  design  he  would  have 

179 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

nothing  less  fine,  and  preferred  waiting  until  he  could 
pay  the  price  for  it,  rather  than  to  pay  a  less  price  and 
have  something  not  so  fine.     .     .     . 

Again,  now  to  Mr.  Homer: 

Wednesday,  Jan.  26th,  1876. 
Dear  Mr.  Homer: 

I  received  both  yours  and  Mrs.  Homer's  letters,  also 
the  portrait  of  that  handsome  young  lady.  You  must 
excuse  my  not  writing.  "Make  hay  while  the  sun 
shines,"  is  the  proverb.  I  am  trying  to  make  a  little 
hay,  and  trying  to  make  the  sun  shine  a  little.  But 
it 's  hard  work.  I  have  little  or  nothing  new  to  tell. 
.  .  .  I  saw  the  other  day  that  Congress  had  appro- 
priated one  thousand  dollars  for  a  bust  of  Chief  Justice 
Taney.  I  wrote  to  Attorney  General  Pierrepont 
about  it  but  received  no  answer.  I  felt  hopeful  about 
it  for  a  time.  I  was  invited  to  Gov.  Morgan's  recep- 
tion last  night.  It  was  a  stylish  affair.  My  figure 
looks  very  well  there.  He  told  me  that  Mrs.  Governor 
Dix,  on  seeing  it  during  the  day,  spoke  of  wanting  me 
to  do  something  for  her.  I  am  going  to  call  there  to- 
night. Tiffany's  has  paid  me  one  hundred  dollars  for 
the  four  little  medallions  I  made,  and  I  am  now  work- 
ing for  them.  I  am  afraid  I  will  not  be  able  to  get 
through  with  the  Jasper  for  the  Centennial.  I  have 
become  quite  intimate  with  Mrs.  Farragut,  and  I  think 
my  chances  for  that  affair  are  still  very  bright,  better 
in  fact  than  they  have  been  so  far,  but  I  will  expect 

180 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

nothing.     I  have  been  so  often  and  so  much  disap- 
pointed that  I  calculate  on  nothing.     .     .     . 

Once  more  to  my  mother: 

Thursday,  May  11,  1876. 

.  .  .  I  have  been  to  Philadelphia  where  I  placed 
my  bust  of  Evarts  in  a  first  rate  position.  .  .  .  To- 
night I  must  see  the  architect  of  Masonic  Hall  in  re- 
gard to  the  "Silence."  I  will  call  on  Field  again,  and 
on  another  gentleman  in  regard  to  exhibiting  my 
"Girl  and  Child."  This  afternoon  I  prepared  that 
sketch  for  the  Exhibition.  I  'm  almost  distracted  with 
the  hundred  different  things  in  my  head,  and  the  plan- 
ning, counter-planning,  &c.,  &c.  Yesterday  I  called 
on  Cisco.  He  also  wanted  everything  done  right  off. 
I  called  on  Morgan.  It 's  useless  and  too  long  for  me 
to  try  and  explain  and  tell  all.  I  am  doing  my  very 
"level  best"  as  they  say. 

Now  to  Mrs.  Homers: 

.  .  .  I  am  also  trying  to  hunt  up  something  about 
a  monument  to  Jasper  that  is  to  be  erected  to  him  in 
Charleston.  It 's  not  the  one  I  have  already  spoken 
to  you  of,  but  another,  and  if  things  take  a  favorable 
turn  I  shall  go  to  Charleston.  If  the  "Farragut" 
should  fail,  I  think  of  passing  the  remainder  of  the  sea- 
son at  Washington  where  I  think  something  might 
arise.  I  am  also  working  on  my  Jasper,  but  have 
stopped  working  nights.     I  am  racing  around  gener- 

181 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

ally  hunting  up  people  for  the  Farragut  campaign,  and 
I  have  but  very  little  time  to  myself.     .     .     . 

From  these  letters  it  is  not  hard  to  believe  that  my  father's 
life  in  New  York  was  one  turbulent  battle.  If  he  could  have 
dealt  with  his  present  difficulties  untroubled  by  the  past,  how- 
ever, he  would  have  felt  reasonably  happy,  confident  in  his 
buoyant  nature  that  his  lot  resembled  that  of  many  others. 
But  the  past,  which  he  had  left  hopelessly  tangled  in  Italy, 
continued  to  follow  him  without  let,  as  is  shown  by  two  more 
letters.  The  first  is  to  his  friend  Dr.  Shiff,  the  second  to  an- 
other friend,  Chevalier,  a  French  genre  painter,  who  escaped 
from  France  after  a  condemnation  by  the  French  Govern- 
ment, as  a  participant  in  the  Parisian  Commune  insurrection 
of  1871. 

July  31st,  '75. 
Dear  Shiff: 

I  write  to  you  to  ask  further  favors,  as  you  have  been 
so  kind  as  to  take  an  interest  in  my  troubles.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Lowe  tells  me  that  he  had  a  conversation  with  you 
about  my  affairs  and,  I  don't  know  with  what  author- 
ity, added  that  he  was  in  hopes  that  you  would  pay  off 
my  creditors  and  emancipate  the  "Silence."  If  it  is  so 
that  you  propose  doing  it,  you  know  better  than  I  can 
ever  express  how  deeply  I  would  thank  you.  I  have 
already  given  you  trouble  enough,  and  my  gratitude 
will  be  even  greater  if  you  can  only  continue  to  pay 
some  attention  to  my  affairs  until  I  get  out  of  this 
strait,  for  I  see  I  cannot  depend  on  anybody  else. 
Louis  will  not  write.  Mr.  Lowe  does  not  answer  all 
my  questions.     And  Blanco's  silence  is  as  great  as  my 

182 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

brother's.  Now,  last  but  not  least,  on  the  14th  of  July 
I  sent  a  draft  through  Duncan,  Sherman  &  Company. 
.  .  .  Of  course  you  know  of  their  failure.  I  am 
only  waiting  a  few  days  to  see  if  there  is  any  chance 
of  those  drafts  being  honored  before  taking  steps  to 
telegraph  more  money  over  to  cover  the  deficiencies 
thus  made.  You  see  I  am  not  in  luck,  but  hard  work 
and  courage  will  bring  me  out  of  it.     .     .     . 

I  wrote  to  Chevalier  last  week,  and  I  thank  him  sin- 
cerely for  the  trouble  he  takes.  I  will  not  forget  you 
all.  ...  I  understand  thoroughly  the  need  of  my 
presence  in  Rome  now,  but  it  would  be  sheer  folly  for 
me  to  leave  here  and  thus  destroy  whatever  prospects 
I  have.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  give  you  all  so 
much  trouble.  If  I  pull  through  it  will  be  all 
"square."  I  '11  take  care  not  to  get  in  such  a  fix  again. 
I  shall  then  have  another  and  a  "level"  head  to  help, 
and  I  think  I  'm  learning  by  experience.     .     .     . 

Your  friend, 

A.  St.-G. 

314  Fourth  Avenue,  New  York,  August  4,  1875. 
My  dear  Chevalier: 

.  .  .  In  case  the  landlord  wants  to  make  trouble, 
try  to  calm  him.  But  if,  by  chance,  he  wishes  to  hold 
something  as  guaranty  for  the  rent — though  he  has  n't 
the  right  if  three  months  are  paid  in  advance,  and  in  a 
few  days  I  will  send  the  money  for  that — let  him  keep 
the  "Indian"  and  all  the  rest  of  the  things.  .  .  . 
Once  the  "Silence"  is  out  and  my  busts  on  the  way,  I 

183 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

won't  care  for  the  rest.  .  .  .  Finally,  I  will  ask 
you  to  excuse  me  for  the  very  brusque  manner  which 
may  possibly  seem  brutal,  in  which  I  ask  these  favors 
of  you.  The  fact  is,  that  if  I  don't  write  down  at  once 
what  I  wish  to  have  done,  my  ideas  would  escape  me. 
So  I  will  finish  with  a  great  big  word  of  thanks  which 
will  include  all  that  I  ought  to  say  to  you.  You  will 
understand  me,  I  hope,  and  on  my  return  you  will  find 
that  I  have  no  lack  of  appreciation  of  kindnesses.  I  do 
not  write  you  of  other  affairs,  as  my  head  is  upside 
down  with  all  of  these  worries.  But  at  some  other 
more  quiet  time,  I  will  send  you  some  secondary  de- 
tails.    A  hand  grasp  for  all  and  one  for  you. 

Here,  for  the  time  being,  I  may  make  an  end  to  my  account 
of  my  father's  anxious  efforts,  in  order  to  turn  to  his  share  in 
the  founding  of  the  Society  of  American  Artists,  which  for 
twenty-five  years  meant  so  much  to  the  progress  of  art  in  this 
land.  For  though  the  history  of  the  inception  of  this  body 
is  really  the  history  of  a  vital  change  in  American  painting, 
not  only  Saint-Gaudens  but  another  sculptor,  Olin  Warner, 
had  much  to  do  with  the  movement. 

As  I  have  explained,  at  the  time  Saint-Gaudens  left  for 
Europe,  the  one  dominant  note  in  American  painting  was  its 
landscapes.  Portraiture,  while  breaking  away  from  the  tra- 
ditions of  Reynolds  or  West,  possessed  no  new  sincere  feel- 
ings to  take  their  place.  Figure  work  led  by  Emanuel  Leutze 
and  Loring  Elliott,  had  assumed  a  self-consciousness  that 
bound  it  to  a  set  of  ponderous  conventions,  smooth,  dull  tech- 
nique and  commonplace  moral  qualities,  rather  than  artistic 
ones. 

But  fresh  notions  were  gently  maturing  beneath  this  smug 
surface.     Eastman  Johnson  and  T.  W.  Ward  began  to  paint 

184 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

figure  and  genre  canvases  in  a  manner  that  would  elicit  little 
sympathy  nowadays,  yet  gave  the  first  indications  of  remon- 
strance against  things  as  they  were.  Soon  after  came  others 
fired  with  a  desire  for  broader  qualities  in  place  of  the  old 
minute  handling.  William  Morris  Hunt  and  John  La  Farge 
each  studied  with  Couture,  and  each  selected  what  best  fitted 
his  needs  in  Paris.  Veder  adapted  Rome  to  his  individuality, 
rather  than  his  individuality  to  Rome.  Winslow  Homer, 
without  leaving  this  land,  struck  away  from  old  trifling  pet- 
tiness to  develop  his  own  note  of  strength.  Then,  seemingly 
all  in  a  moment,  the  new  movement  grew  in  volume  and  ve- 
locity. The  courage  of  ignorance  that  had  sent  forth  the 
elder  generations  no  longer  remained  possible.  The  young 
men  began  to  discover  about  them  the  wish  for  sound  tech- 
nical training.  The  Academy,  with  its  trivial  inspirations 
and  laborious  rendering,  could  not  meet  the  demands  for 
firm,  free  draughtsmanship  and  color  that  was  warm  and 
rich. 

At  once  Munich  and  Paris  began  to  replace  Rome  and 
Diisseldorf  in  popularity ;  for  France,  in  especial,  had  long 
possessed  more  sturdy  traditions,  more  exacting  training  than 
other  lands,  and  such  men  as  Shirlaw,  Chase,  and  Duveneck 
had  begun  to  recognize  it.  Enthusiasm  in  hard,  intelligent 
study,  with  individuality  as  the  keynote,  Lowe  and  Beckwith 
and  Sargent  were  gaining  from  Carolus  Duran.  Unrelenting 
drawing  from  the  nude,  Julien  and  Colorossi  taught  in  the 
Beaux  Arts  Academies  to  such  young  men  as  Bridgeman, 
Eakins,  Thayer,  Weir,  Eaton,  Dewing  and  Vonnah. 

But  when  this  group  of  reformers,  so  justly  convinced  of 
their  rights,  turned  to  their  home  country  for  their  laurels, 
a  most  unexpected  though  natural  reception  met  them.  They 
had  failed  to  realize  that,  while  their  efforts  might  prove  strong 
in  drawing  here  or  in  the  handling  of  color  there,  as  yet  they 
lacked  the  unity  that  would  come  with  age  and  experience. 
Also  they  had  not  reckoned   on  the   fact  that  the  American 

185 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

taste,  though  dissatisfied  with  the  old  seasoning,  would  require 
some  time  to  become  trained  to  the  new. 

The  Academicians,  though  naturally  they  could  not  under- 
stand, remained  cordial  as  long  as  they  had  no  need  to  enter- 
tain the  situation  seriously.  But  when  the  men  already  men- 
tioned began  to  appear,  and  beside  them  Brush,  Maynard, 
Lathrop,  Francis  Millet,  and  a  quantity  of  others  demanded 
space,  the  resentment  of  the  older  body  is  easy  to  imagine. 
They  were  certainly  unwilling  to  relinquish  the  whip-hand  to 
a  group,  which,  according  to  their  viewpoint,  had  neither 
technical  nor  literary  excellence,  and  yet  regarded  the  Acade- 
micians as  antiquated  fogies  and,  what  is  more,  said  so  in 
print.  Consequently,  at  one  exhibition  the  new  pictures  were 
hung  in  the  darkest  corners,  and  great  was  the  uproar  from 
the  fresh  comers.  Then  the  innovations  were  placed  "on  the 
line,"  and  deep  was  the  wailing  from  the  ousted  "old  timers." 
So  the  split  inevitably  widened,  and  indignation  waxed  on  both 
sides,  until  on  June  1,  1877,  at  Miss  Helena  deKay's  Studio, 
Saint-Gaudens,  Eaton,  and  Shirlaw  organized  the  Society  of 
American  Artists.  Let  no  one  doubt  the  courage  of  that  act, 
for  my  father  and  his  friends  threw  down  the  gauntlet  to  an 
old  and  powerful  organization  with  money  and  social  pres- 
tige and  every  apparent  reason  to  resent  the  action  of  an  un- 
mannerly group  of  youngsters. 

More  intimately  to  set  forth  the  creation  of  this  new  body, 
let  me  quote  from  a  letter  written  by  Mr.  Gilder  to  me  on  June 
6,  1907. 

"I  have  often  said  that  the  Society  of  American  Artists 
was  founded  on  the  wrath  of  Saint-Gaudens.  You  know  Mrs. 
Gilder  was  a  student  in  those  days,  first  at  the  Cooper  Insti- 
tute and  then  at  the  Academy  school.  Later  she  belonged  to 
the  new  Art  Students'  League,  which  was  a  revolt  from  the 
Academy  School.  Just  then  the  old  Academicians  were  carry- 
ing things  with  a  pretty  high  hand,  so  I  spoke  to  a  few  of  the 
younger  men  of  our  American  renaissance  about  starting  a 

186 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

new  organization.  When  I  mentioned  it  to  your  father  he 
said  that  the  time  had  not  quite  come.  But  one  day, — just 
thirty  years  ago  last  Saturday,  June  first,  1877, — he  rang 
the  bell  at  the  iron  gate  at  103  East  Fifteenth  Street.  It 
was  noon,  and  I  was  at  home  for  lunch.  I  ran  down  to  the 
gate,  and  I  tell  you  there  was  a  high  wind  blowing!  Your 
reverend  father  was  as  mad  as  hops.  He  declared  that  they 
had  just  thrown  out  a  piece  of  sculpture  of  his  from  the 
Academy  exhibit,  and  that  he  was  ready  to  go  into  a  new 
movement.  I  told  him  to  come  round  that  very  evening.  We 
sent,  in  addition,  for  Walter  Shirlaw  and  Wyatt  Eaton,  and 
the  Society  of  American  Artists  was  that  night  founded  by 
Walter  Shirlaw,  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens,  Wyatt  Eaton  and 
Helena  deKay  Gilder,  your  humble  servant  acting  as  secre- 
tary, though  Wyatt  Eaton  was  the  nominal  secretary.  Clar- 
ence Cook,  the  critic,  was  present,  but  not  as  a  member. 

"I  remember  that  Cook  soon  hauled  off  because  a  certain 
artist  was  admitted.  He  said  the  movement  was  already 
spoiled.  I  labored  with  him  and  told  him  that  when  a  cause 
took  up  physical  arms  by  means  of  an  association,  in  order 
to  gain  the  advantages  of  an  association  it  was  apt  to  come 
down  somewhat  from  the  highest  ideals ;  that  even  among  the 
apostles  there  was  one  not  up  to  the  mark,  and  the  Church 
itself  was  not  the  ideal  thing  that  the  ideal  of  Christianity  is. 
I  said  that,  if  the  association  really  ran  down  seriously,  a  new, 
one  would  be  started  to  do  the  work,  and  do  so,  ad  infinitum." 

As  I  have  explained,  the  "movement"  was  not  "spoiled." 
On  the  contrary,  the  Tightness  of  their  attitude  received  an 
unusually  prompt  recognition,  and  Mr.  Cook  recovered  from 
his  first  disgust  and  resumed  a  just  and  friendly  attitude,  as 
may  be  seen  by  this  letter  of  his  published  in  the  New  York 
Tribune  upon  June  27,  1877: 

".  .  .  The  dispute  between  the  Academy  and  the  party 
of  reform  is  essentially  a  dispute  about  principles.  Persons 
are  brought  into  the  discussion  only  as  illustrations,  and  while 

187 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

it  would  not  be  possible  to  carry  on  the  argument  without 
these  personal  allusions,  there  is  not,  on  my  part  at  least,  any 
personal  partizanship  in  the  matter.  Thus,  it  is  not  at  all 
because  Mr.  Maynard's  'Portrait  of  Secretary  Evarts'  was 
rejected  as  not  being  a  good  likeness  that  I  complain.  It  is, 
simply  and  solely,  because  a  'portrait  of  somebody'  by  'some- 
body' was  rejected  for  not  being  a  good  likeness — and  not 
alone  for  that  either,  but  because  one  man  took  it  upon  him- 
self to  decide  for  himself  that  it  was  not  a  good  likeness.  I 
have  said,  and  I  repeat  it,  that  if  Mr.  LeClear's  'Portraits'  or 
Mr.  O'Donovan's  'bust'  had  been  rejected  on  the  ground  of 
their  not  being  good  likenesses,  even  if  not  one  man  only,  but 
the  whole  body  of  academicians  had  decided  that  they  were 
bad  likenesses,  the  wrong  done  to  these  artists  would  have  been 
the  same  as  the  wrong  done  to  Mr.  Maynard,  and  equally  de- 
serving a  rebuke. 

"So  with  the  sending  back  of  Mr.  St.-Gaudens'  'Sketch  in 
Plaster'  on  the  plea  that  there  was  not  room  for  it.  It  was 
not  Mr.  St.-Gaudens  for  whom  I  took  up  the  cudgels ;  it  was 
the  principle.  There  is  always  room  in  the  Academy,  as 
there  is  everywhere,  for  good  work,  and  if  there  is  not  room, 
room  can  always  be  made.  Where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a 
way.  We  are  to  presume  that  Mr.  St.-Gaudens'  work  was 
good,  since  he  was  personally  requested  by  a  member  of  the 
Hanging  Committee  to  send  it.  It  was  sent  in,  and  returned 
on  the  express  plea  that  there  was  not  room.  Yet  it  is  well 
known  that  there  was  plenty  of  room,  and  even  a  stand  pro- 
vided for  it,  so  to  speak,  by  Nature.  And,  as  if  to  make 
this  ill  treatment  more  marked,  a  bust  by  Mr.  O'Donovan  of 
another  member  of  the  Hanging  Committee  was  taken  out  of 
the  room  usually  given  up  to  sculpture,  and  placed  by  itself 
in  a  good  light  in  another  room.  Meanwhile  nine  other  busts, 
the  works  of  various  hands,  were  huddled  ignominiously  to- 
gether at  one  side  of  the  sculpture  room  in  such  a  way  that 
it  was  not  possible  for  the  spectator  to  do  them  justice.     It 

188 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

was  not  that  Mr.  St.-Gaudens,  Mr.  Plartley,  Mr.  Edmund 
Palmer,  and  others  were  treated  unjustly,  nor  that  Mr. 
O'Donovan  was  unjustly  favored,  that  I  complained.  The  es- 
sence of  my  complaint  was  that  flagrant  injustice  was  done 
to  somebody,  and  that  gross  favoritism  was  shown  to  some- 
body else.  I  do  not  like  Mr.  O'Donovan's  bust,  but  suppos- 
ing he  had  been  treated  as  Mr.  St.-Gaudens  was,  and  Mr.  St.- 
Gaudens  favored  as  he  was,  I  hope  I  should  have  objected.  I 
certainly  should  have  been  bound  to  object,  for  the  principle 
would  have  been  the  same.     .     .     ." 

Finally,  lest  an  impression  be  gained  from  some  of  the  fore- 
going letters  that  Saint-Gaudens  during  these  years  was 
violently  aggressive  and  self-conscious,  let  me  quote  Mrs.  Dix's 
words  to  my  mother  just  after  the  wedding  and  before  the  de- 
parture for  Europe. 

She  said:  "Mrs.  Saint-Gaudens,  do  you  know  why  I  like  your 
husband?     Because  above  all  other  things  he  is  a  modest  man." 


189 


VII 
WORK  FOR  LA  FARGE 

1877-1878 

The  French  Salon  in  a  Rut— The  St.  Thomas  Reliefs— The  Protes- 
tant in  Art — Details  Across  the  Ocean — Will  H.  Low — Painting 
the  Reliefs — Time  Presses — Appreciation  and  Criticism  by  La 
Farge — A  Contemporary  Opinion — The  King  Tomb. 

TO  turn  once  more  to  Europe,  my  father's  immediate 
work  upon  establishing  himself  in  Paris  was  to  model 
the  St.  Thomas  reliefs.  They  were  most  important 
for  him  at  the  time,  and  greatly  added  to  his  reputation  at 
home.  Yet  he  speaks  of  them  in  his  reminiscences  only  in  two 
brief  sentences.  "On  my  arrival  in  Paris  I  took  a  little  stu- 
dio in  an  attractive  part  of  the  city  not  far  from  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe,  and  began  at  once  on  the  St.  Thomas  reliefs.  I 
worked  rapidly,  as  was  necessary,  and  in  a  short  time  they 
were  dispatched  to  America."  What  made  my  father's  task 
difficult  was  that,  since  the  work  was  to  fit  in  with  Mr.  La 
Farge's  scheme,  all  the  details  had  to  be  arranged  by  photo- 
graphs and  letters.  Such  a  proceeding  is  bad  enough  at  best 
with  ample  time  at  one's  disposal.  When  haste  is  demanded 
into  the  bargain,  the  situation  becomes  nearly  impossible. 
Therefore  the  result  was  carried  to  a  successful  conclusion 
only  at  the  cost  of  much  anxiety  on  the  part  of  both  men. 
The  portions  of  the  first  two  letters  which  follow  are  typical 
of  the  tone  in  which  Mr.  La  Farge  wrote. 

My  dear  St.-Gaudens:  ■* 

.     .     .     Do  not  take  much  stock  in  what  Dr.  Morgan  thinks 
suitable  for  the  figures  unless  you  yourself  approve  of  what  he 

190 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

says.  He  has,  as  you  remember,  a  fear  that  they  will  be  too 
Catholic.  There  is  no  danger.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  the 
Protestant  in  art.  All  you  need  do  is  not  to  make  any  aureoles 
around  their  heads.  Any  medieval  sculpture,  or  renaissance 
(not  a  late  one),  or  paintings  of  the  early  time  (Italian), 
give  the  type  that  will  be  needed  to  be  neither  high  nor  low 
church.  Depend  upon  this,  and  if  necessary  do  the  necessary 
fibbing  about  it;  I  will  take  that  on  me  afterwards.     .     .     . 

Newport,  R.  I.  Sept.  15, 1877. 
My  dear  Mr.  St.-Gaudens: 

.  .  .  Only  one  thing  keep  in  mind;  make  the  projections 
sufficient  to  cast  a  strong  shadow  and  keep  the  darks  as  I  have 
them.  For  instance,  the  angels  under  them  have  shadows. 
That  gives  them  a  real  and  at  the  same  time  an  unreal  appear- 
ance as  if  they  floated.     No  paint  can  do  this.     .     .     . 

Here  are  some  of  my  father's  letters  to  La  Farge: 

233  Fbg.  Saint  Honore,  July  17,  1877. 
My  dear  Mr.  La  Farge: 

.  .  .  We  had  a  very  pleasant  passage,  but  nat- 
urally I  was  as  sick  as  a  dog  till  the  last  day.  I  found 
England  of  much  interest  and  regretted  I  could  not 
remain  there  longer.  Their  exhibition  I  thought,  with 
one  or  two  exceptions,  very  weak  and  Leighton's 
statue  "tres  pompier."  There  was  an  exquisite  figure 
by  Dallou.  In  the  French  Salon  I  was  a  little  disap- 
pointed, particularly  in  the  sculpture.  Nevertheless  I 
was  delighted  to  see  it.  There  are  a  large  number  of 
very  strong  paintings  with  the  Americans  by  no  means 
behindhand.  The  sculpture,  although  there  was  some 
very  fine  modeling,  is  all  in  a  "rut."     It  seems  as  if 

191 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

the  artists  were  too  poor  to  travel,  and,  as  in  New 
York,  the  encouragement,  distribution  of  medals,  &c, 
&c.,  lies  in  the  hands  of  old  "pompiers"  of  1830.  The 
young  fellows  can't  have  any  orders  if  they  don't  have 
medals,  and  they  can't  get  medals  if  they  break  from 
these  fellows.  My  friend  Dammouse  praised  me 
warmly  in  the  coloring  I  have  given  to  the  Armstrong 
medallion.  He  received  the  "medal  of  honor,"  and  his 
prize  pictures  were  published  in  "1'Art."  You  may 
come  across  them.  If  you  do,  let  me  know  what  you 
think. 

My  wife  joins  me  in  kindest  regards  to  yourself  and 
wife. 

A.  St.-G. 

Paris,  233  Fbg.  St.  Honore,  Aug.  29,  1877. 
My  dear  Mr.  La  Forge: 

.  .  .  I  have  commenced  on  the  sculpture  and  I 
feel  very  sanguine  about  it.  I  will  send  you  a  photo- 
graph of  the  first  bas-relief  day  after  to-morrow.  I 
am  not  fully  satisfied  with  it,  but  I  see  my  way  through, 
and  I  think  the  whole  affair  will  be  very  effective. 
There  is  a  great  deal  more  work  in  it  than  I  ever 
thought  possible.  But  I  am  far  from  complaining. 
On  the  contrary,  I  am  delighted  that  I  have  the  chance 
to  do  this,  and  I  only  regret  that  instead  of  the  time 
I  have  I  could  not  have  a  year.  Probably  the  effect  of 
the  whole,  when  finished,  would  not  be  very  different 
from  what  it  will  be  now;  but  I  could  study  up  the  re- 
liefs "avec  plus  de  soin."     I  have  been  to  the  Louvre 

192 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

to  see  the  pictures  of  the  early  Renaissance,  and  the 
next  relief  will  be  more  in  that  character.  I  doubt 
though  whether  that  will  change  the  effect  much;  what 
I  think  you  wish,  or  at  least  what  seems  to  me  neces- 
sary, and  what  you  have  indicated  in  your  drawing,  can 
be  obtained  only  by  a  good  indication  and  disposition 
of  masses  and  of  light  and  dark.     I  am  trying  for 

LilclL.        •       •       • 

.  .  .  I  may  have  been  very  bold  or  I  may  have 
taken  great  liberties.  If  I  have  done  wrong,  color  can 
change  what  is  out  of  place.  But  I  thought  I  would 
enter  more  into  your  feeling  by  doing  the  following, 
viz:  I  found  that  a  bas-relief  four  feet  six  by  three 
feet  six  inches  which  is  about  the  division  necessary  to 
make  them  of  about  equal  size,  made  a  surface  very 
difficult  to  cover  with  two  figures.  So  I  have  placed 
on  the  outer  edge  of  the  bas-relief  a  kind  of  flat  panel 
with  an  ornament  taken  from  an  antique  running  up 
and  down  and  which  may  be  made  continuous  and  run 
the  whole  length  of  the  work  on  each  side,  in  my  opin- 
ion making  a  better  proportion,  in  fact  keeping  the 
proportion  of  your  photograph  which  I  think  good,  but 
which  you  say  is  too  narrow,  according  to  the  scale, 
by  a  foot  and  some  inches.  I  mean  I  prefer  the  more 
elongated  proportions.  If  you  do  not  like  that  you  can 
re'turn  to  your  proportions  by  accentuating  with 
stronger  color  the  intersection  between  the  bas-reliefs 
at  the  frieze.     .     .     . 

Another  thing  I  have  done  or  will  do  is  this.  Think- 
ing that  an  equal  division  of  the  reliefs  has  the  most 

193 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

character,  and  thinking  that  to  obtain  that  effect  it 
would  be  preferable  to  have  more  reliefs,  and  thus  ob- 
tain more  horizontal  lines,  than  to  have  fewer  reliefs 
and  therefore  have  fewer  horizontal  lines,  I  concluded 
to  do  the  former,  and  have  added  at  the  top  a  small 
relief,  not  so  high  as  the  others  but  treated  in  the  same 
way,  at  the  same  time  forming  a  kind  of  a  frieze,  which 
will  have  cherubs'  heads  and  wings.  I  trust  I  have  not 
done  anything  very  terrible.  I  have  indicated  the  pro- 
portions they  will  have  on  the  other  page.     .     .     . 

There  is  so  much  work  that  I  have  had  to  get  a  fel- 
low to  help  me  paint,  and  I  have  asked  Lowe  to  do  so. 
You  recollect  his  large  picture,  the  woman,  "Style  Em- 
pire," with  the  dog,  at  the  Academy.  He  says  Homer 
Martin  gave  him  a  letter  of  introduction  to  you,  and, 
as  he  is  an  admirer  of  your  work,  I  feel  sure  he  will 
help  me  well.     .    .     . 

Sept.  6,  1877. 
Dear  Mr.  La  Farge: 

Your  letter  of  August  24th  I  received  yesterday.  I 
enclose  a  photograph  of  the  second  bas-relief. 

I  have  colored  the  first  one  and  feel  very  enthusiastic 
about  it.  I  am  afraid  though  that  Dr.  Morgan,  who 
was  so  much  pleased  with  the  reliefs,  "jettera  des  hauts 
cris"  when  he  sees  the  coloring;  but  I  have  tried  to  do 
something  good  at  the  almost  certain  risk  of  displeasing 
generally.  However,  if  you  are  pleased,  which  I  think 
you  will  be,  they  being  a  great  deal  better  colored  and 
having  a  great  deal  more  character  than  as  you  see  them 

194 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

in  the  photograph,  I  shall  be  happy.  I  shall  trust  that 
you  will  stand  by  me  firmly.  I  have  tried  to  keep  them 
so  as  not  to  clash  with  your  painting.  They  have  been 
painted  at  the  height,  or  very  nearly  so,  at  which  they 
will  be  seen;  and  must  not  be  judged  before  they  are 
in  place,  being  very  coarsely  done  when  seen  close  to. 
If  possible,  avoid  Dr.  Morgan's  seeing  them  before 
they  are  up.  You  must  take  into  consideration  the 
time  I  have  been  obliged  to  do  them  in,  viz. :  an  average 
of  two  days  and  a  half  each.  When  you  see  their  size 
you  will  see  that  it  was  a  terrible  job  for  me.  I  am 
certain,  though,  if  ever  I  do  any  more  work  of  that 
kind  and  have  plenty  of  time,  that  some  excellent  ef- 
fects can  be  produced.  So  that  you  may  know  what 
is  going  to  come  alongside  of  your  color,  I  will  tell  you 
that  I  have  kept  it  very  much  like  the  Armstrong 
medallion,  lighter,  but  with  some  very  dark  accentua- 
tions in  the  hollows.  There  are  more  colors  and  a  kind 
of  a  vague  showing  of  different  colors  in  the  dresses, 
very  vague  though,  and  you  need  have  no  fear  of 
banality.  There  will  be  a  little  gilt  also.  The  orna- 
ment at  the  side  of  the  panel  is  sober  in  color,  and  the 
whole  far  better  than  the  clay.  Two  more  reliefs  will 
be  finished  to-morrow.  I  have  another  modeler  with 
me  and  two  boys  beside  Low,  the  painter.  He  follows 
my  directions,  but  nevertheless  has  found  some  very 
subtle  colors  that  I  am  sure  you  will  like.  I  must 
speak  of  him,  as  he  is  no  doubt  a  real  artist.  You  must 
not  judge  him  by  what  you  saw  in  the  Academy. 
That  was  rushed  off  in  no  time.     He  is  a  great  ad- 

195 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

mirer  of  you.  He  is  certainly  in  the  right  sentiment, 
liking  Millet,  Dupres,  Delacroix,  .etc.  You  will 
see  a  large  portrait  of  Mile.  Albani  by  him.  That  also 
he  is  much  dissatisfied  with  as  it  was  rushed  off,  but  it 
will  show  you  his  power.     .     .     . 

4 

233  Faubourg  St.-Honore,  Paris, 
September  10, 1877. 
My  dear  Mr,  La  Farge: 

.  .  .  It  is  an  immense  job,  and  from  seven  in  the 
morning  till  eight  at  night,  six  of  us  are  at  work,  be- 
sides the  other  men  employed  in  drying  the  plaster  so 
that  it  may  be  painted  on  immediately.  As  to  the  sub- 
stance they  are  in,  I  will  guarantee  that  they  will  last 
as  long  as  any  of  the  little  Renaissance  reliefs.     .     .     . 

Tell  me  very  frankly  what  you  think.  I  hope  they 
will  go  well  with  your  work.  You  can  glaze  them 
down  if  they  do  not  satisfy  you,  and  you  can  paint 
them  all  in  one  tone  if  too  ugly  "pour  le  bourgeois." 
As  to  my  work,  as  I  said  before,  in  judging  it  you  must 
remember  that  two  days  and  a  half  each  is  the  time  I 
have  had.  My  modelers  could  only  help  in  putting  on 
the  masses  of  clay  and  getting  everything  ready  for 
me.  I  tried  to  have  them  do  some  work,  but  it  was 
beastly.  Miozzi  and  I  had  to  do  it  all  over.  Every- 
thing has  been  done  by  me.  The  frieze  of  cherubs' 
heads  I  modeled  in  five  hours.  I  write  now  as  to-mor- 
row I  commence  working  at  night.  I  am  feeling  first 
rate  and  just  like  work,  but  I  am  anxious  about  the 
impression  it  will  produce  and  particularly  your  criti- 

196 


ADORATION   OF  THE  CROSS   BY  ANGKLS,"  MODELED  IN  HKill  RELIEF 

AND    PLACED    IN    TIIK  CHANCEL  OK  ST.  THOMAS'S  CHURCH, 

NEW  YORK  CITY.    DESTROYED  BY  KIRK,  AUGUSTS,  1905 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

cism  of  the  color.  As  to  the  reliefs,  I  have  done  my 
best  for  the  time;  perhaps  some  of  them  are  better 
than  if  I  had  "fussed"  over  them.     .     .     . 

I  am  keeping  the  bas-relief  light  as  you  suggested. 
I  am  doing  them  in  a  dark  place  and  I  try  also  night 
effects  with  a  strong  light.  ...  I  am  very  anx- 
ious to  have  you  see  the  work,  to  know  your  opinion  of 
it  and  to  know  how  it  agrees  with  yours.  I  am  sure 
that  as  a  whole  it  will  be  good  in  effect.  Of  course 
the  detail  will  not  please  the  public,  but  as  I  said  be- 
fore I  think  the  color  takes  all  "banality"  out  of  the 
work.     .     .     . 

Finally  the  composition  was  sent  to  America,  and  with  it 
went  a  letter  of  which  the  following  is  a  portion: 

September  20,  '77. 
My  dear  Mr.  La  Forge: 

I  have  just  returned  from  the  station,  where  I  have 
seen  the  work  for  the  church  sent  off.  I  trust  it  will 
reach  you  in  safety.  I  have  had  a  terrible  time  of  it 
to-day  and  I  hope  that  all  the  earnestness,  worry,  and 
care  that  I  have  devoted  to  it  will  be  repaid  by  your 
liking  it. 

.  .  .  As  I  said  in  one  of  my  previous  letters, 
while  I  do  not  complain  in  the  least,  I  think  it  best  to 
inform  you  how  much  I  had  underestimated  the  work. 
However,  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  if  this  is  successful 
and  opens  the  field  for  more  work  of  that  kind,  in 
which  I  take  the  deepest  interest.  I  feel  very  sanguine 
about  it.     And  if  it  is  not  entirely  as  you  wish,  lay  it 

199 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

to  the  tremendous  haste  in  which  it  was  done.  I  make 
no  pretense  of  it  as  a  piece  of  sculpture,  that  would  be 
ridiculous  considering  the  time  I  had  to  do  it,  but  my 
aim  has  been  to  keep  it  grave,  harmonious  in  tone,  and 
above  all  good  in  general  effect,  having  your  work  in 
my  mind  all  the  time.  Do  not  judge  them  as  they 
come  out  of  the  box,  they  are  in  some  cases  hideous,  but 
wait  till  they  are  up  and  in  proper  position,  with  noth- 
ing white  around  them.  I  think,  and  all  my  friends 
do,  that  the  effect  was  imposing  in  my  studio.  You 
can  change  what  color  you  wish,  "but  wait  till  it  is  up 
first.  If  you  have  a  photograph  of  the  whole  work 
taken,  please  send  me  a  copy.  I  will  send  you  a  photo- 
graph of  it  taken  as  it  was  in  the  studio,  the  upper  part 
appearing  badly  on  account  of  the  rainy  weather. 
.  .  .  I  consider  the  figure  nearest  the  cross  as  by 
far  the  best  in  character  and  effect  of  color.  .  .  . 
I  like  least  the  prostrate  angels.  .  .  .  The  first  fig- 
ure farthest  from  the  cross  is  more  in  the  character  of 
what  I  would  have  done  had  I  time.  The  other  figure 
furthest  from  the  cross  I  consider  the  ugliest.  .  .  . 
As  I  said  before,  all  like  it  here,  even  the  architect 
who  said  that  as  architecture  it  was  "tres  mauvais," 
explaining  that  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  have 
some  kind  of  frieze  or  definite  line  between  each  relief. 
This  you  can  easily  have  done  for  yourself.  Have  you 
noticed  how  much  like  the  proportions  of  the  doors  of 
Ghiberti  the  work  becomes  by  putting  the  molding  in 
between,  and  how,  unconsciously,  by  putting  the  frieze 

200 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

on  the  side  and  the  cherubs'  heads  on  top  I  am  above 
reproach. 

Of  course  to  all  of  this  La  Farge  replied  at  length,  as  was 
his  habit;  and  from  these  answers  one  at  least  should  be  given 
not  only  for  its  own  merit  but  because  it  explains  so  well  the 
letter  it  drew  from  my  father. 

My  dear  Mr.  St.-Gaudens: 

.  .  .  Your  bas-relief  is  thought  by  others  as  well  as  by 
myself  to  be  a  great  success.  In  the  light  in  which  it  is,  its 
shortcomings  are  hardly  to  be  noticed ;  they  are  of  course  the 
result  of  the  slight  way  in  which  some  of  the  extremities  are 
modeled,  owing  to  your  shortness  of  time.  But  this  on  all 
the  groups  that  are  the  best  in  general  movement  is  much  less 
apparent  than  you  would  believe.  The  whole  appearance  is 
so  successful  that  at  a  distance  there  is  a  breath  of  Italy  in  it 
which  takes  hold  of  every  one.  Rest  assured  that  the  thing 
is  good,  as  far  as  it  could  be,  with  all  the  difficulties  in  your 
way  of  hurry  and  unaccustomed  work.  So  you  have  my 
hearty  congratulations  and  I  only  regret  that  you  could  not 
have  had  perhaps  two  months  more  to  make  over  things  more 
seriously.     It  is  a  living  work  of  art. 

And  now  that  I  have  told  you  how  pleased  I  was,  I  must  also 
mention  a  very  good  objection,  which  will  explain  itself.  By 
changing  the  proportions  of  the  angels  from  my  drawing, 
you  have  in  the  first  place  done  this,  made  the  angels  look 
small  compared  to  the  stained  glass  and  the  pictures.  You 
will  remember  how  carefully  all  the  great  examples  avoid  this 
thing  which  is  always  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  smaller  look- 
ing thing  and  to  the  destruction  of  the  unity  of  design.  Look 
at  Amiens  or  Notre  Dame,  or  the  Pantheon  or  any  great  Ital- 
ian front.  But  even  that  is  a  small  disadvantage.  The  band 
of  angels'  heads  above  looks  small  and  childlike  and  separates 
the  work  from  the  crown,  which  now  has  no  support  and  seems 

201 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

to  fall.  All  that  I  assure  you  was  thought  of  by  me  when  I 
made  my  drawing  and  was  the  pivot  of  my  entire  work.  So 
that  you  not  only  destroyed  all  the  effect  of  that  part,  but 
also,  by  having  then  to  fill  in  on  the  sides  by  putting  there  two 
small  angels  instead  of  the  big  ones,  which  leave  as  you  will 
see  a  blank  space,  you  prevented  my  getting  my  moldings 
into  the  wall  as  I  had  designed,  all  very  exactly.  I  had  to 
displace  them  and  cut  them  and  put  them  by  trials  to  the  wall 
until  they  composed  tolerably.  The  mass  of  the  whole  deco- 
ration was  therefore  gone. 

I  did  all  I  could  and  three  weeks  of  work  were  spent ;  it  cost 
me  nearly  what  I  paid  you  to  make  all  this  alteration.  Be- 
sides that  I  had  to  cut  my  picture,  which  as  the  principal 
figure  came  within  two  inches  of  the  edge,  was  very  disagree- 
able to  my  artistic  feelings  and  to  my  personal  feeling  also. 
As  I  had  given  you  the  principal  place,  it  was  a  bore  also  to 
have  even  my  place  injured.  There  is  also  a  doorway  look 
produced  by  all  those  squares  with  angels  in  them  which  makes 
it  look  as  if  the  walls  were  a  door  and  prevents  solidity.  But 
this  I  have  diminished  a  good  deal  by  painting,  and  a  little  by 
cutting.  I  regret  it  especially  for  you,  however.  It  seems 
to  me  that  you  have  some  poor  advisers.  I  should  mistrust 
the  French  ambitions  anyhow.  It  is  by  nobody's  taste  you 
must  go,  unless  you  find  a  mind  just  at  sympathy  with  yours, 
and  unless  they  can  give  you  reasons,  and  the  reasons  should 
always  be  big  ones,  to  overset  any  arrangement  already  taken. 
Believe  me  I  know,  as  well  as  those  boys,  what  makes  unity, 
and  this  I  know,  and  they  know  too,  only  they  have  not  the 
courage  to  carry  it  out,  that  a  "joli  morceau"  does  not  make 
a  whole  and  that  the  curse  of  modern  art  is  this  little  "assem- 
blage" of  all  sorts  of  pieces,  the  painter  doing  one  thing, 
without  caring  for  the  sculptor  and  the  sculptor  not  caring 
for  the  architect  or  painter,  and  the  architect  considering 
them  as  enemies  of  his  for  whom  he  has  to  make  little  devices 
and  frames  and  niches  to  put  them  in. 

202 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

I  hope  you  will  agree  with  me  on  this  general  idea,  and  be- 
lieve also  that  all  who  do  not  are  enemies  of  any  possibility  of 
return  to  the  great  art  of  the  past.  It  is  not  the  details  that 
make  the  great,  it  is  the  obedience  to  a  few  simple  truths  which 
give  unity. 

I  have  taken  to  preaching,  but  I  know  that  when  an  artist 
with  sentiment  and  a  desire  to  do  right,  is  in  the  hands  of 
the  academicians,  whether  they  are  so  called  or  not,  he  runs 
the  risk  of  losing  gradually  the  greater  things  for  the 
smaller.     .     .     . 

Yours  sincerely, 

La  Fabge. 
To  this  my  father  answered: — 

About  December  1st,  1877. 
My  dear  Mr,  La  Farge: 

Your  letter  about  the  church  caused  me  at  the  same 
time  more  real  pleasure  and  more  annoyance  than  any 
letter  any  artist  could  write  me;  first  because  I  value 
the  compliments  you  paid  me  beyond  any  that  I  can 
receive,  and  second  because  you  are  the  last  artist  whose 
feelings,  both  personal  and  artistic,  I  would  wish  in 
any  way  to  hurt.  If  anything  in  my  work  has  done 
that,  believe  me,  it  has  arisen  not  from  even  the  thought 
of  a  disregard  in  any  sense  whatsoever  of  your  desires, 
but  from  oversight  or  misunderstanding. 

I  thank  you  sincerely  for  the  praises  you  have  judged 
my  work  worthy  of.  They  caused  me  the  deepest 
pleasure,  for,  aside  from  the  pride  I  feel  in  having  so 
high  a  compliment  from  you,  it  is  a  gratification  for  me 
to  feel  that  the  work  entered  so  much  in  harmony  with 
your  feelings.     That  was  my  sole  aim.     I  feel  as  I  have 

203 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

often  said,  that  I  owe  in  a  great  measure  what  is  good 
in  my  work  to  what  companionship  and  influence  I  have 
had  bear  on  me  through  you. 

As  for  faults  in  my  work  proper,  I  will  make  no  at- 
tempt at  excuses.  You  understand  that  in  trying  to 
get  a  good  whole,  I  got  a  deal  of  bad  in  what  was  sec- 
ondary in  them. 

Now  as  to  the  mistakes  and  what  I  did  wrong  in  the 
work  as  a  whole.  I  changed  the  size  of  the  reliefs  at 
the  arms  of  the  cross,  putting  in  two  angels  instead  of 
one,  adding  the  frieze  of  angels'  heads  on  top  and  cut- 
ting the  lowest  relief,  as  I  understood  from  our  con- 
versation about  the  work  that  the  drawing  you  made 
was  simply  your  idea  of  what  would  be  a  good  division 
and  disposition  of  the  reliefs  and  that  I  was  at  liberty 
to  change  if  in  the  execution  of  the  work  it  seemed  nec- 
essary. I  was  certainly  under  the  impression  that  you 
did  not  consider  your  sketch  as  at  all  definite,  and  that 
you  were  in  doubt  even  as  to  whether  you  would  have 
the  crown  or  not.  I  wrote  you  my  reasons  for  making 
the  changes  and  did  not  think  that  I  was  trespassing  on 
any  arrangements  already  made.  The  frieze  of  heads 
I  thought  if  you  did  not  like  you  might  leave  out  and 
I  wrote  you  to  that  effect.  I  did  not  know  that  I  had 
changed  the  proportion  of  the  angels  materially  from 
the  drawing,  but  I  fully  understand  and  agree  with 
your  criticism  as  to  the  lack  of  ensemble  between  the 
figures  in  the  windows  and  the  relief,  and  if  I  had  had 
more  time  so  as  to  communicate  more  with  you  and 

204 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

think  more  myself,  I  would  have  avoided  what  I  fully 
appreciate  is  a  great  fault. 

You  speak  of  the  difficulty  of  getting  your  moldings 
into  the  wall,  and  of  some  like  difficulty  arising  from 
my  having  placed  two  angels  instead  of  one,  thereby 
occupying  the  blank  space,  indicated  in  your  drawing 
on  the  reliefs  where  the  arms  of  the  cross  are.  I  have 
read  the  passage  over  and  over  and  cannot  understand. 
You  speak  of  this  and  of  being  obliged  to  cut  your  pic- 
tures. I  am  sincerely  pained  if  any  misunderstanding 
of  mine  was  the  cause  of  that.  But  I  feel  in  the  dark 
about  it.  I  made  the  reliefs  of  the  width  you  said,  ten 
feet,  and  cannot  understand  where  it  is  wrong.  Is  it 
on  account  of  the  thickness  of  the  reliefs  that  you  had 
the  difficulty?  And  did  your  expense  come  from  the 
imbedding  the  relief  in  the  wall?  I  am  anxious  to 
know  what  has  been  the  matter  and  trust  you  will  let 
me  know.  For,  as  I  said  in  the  beginning  of  my  letter, 
not  for  an  instant  would  I  have  done  anything  in  my 
work  that  would  have  been  to  the  detriment  of  your 
work  either  as  to  space  or  anything  else.  I  kept  within 
what  I  thought  was  the  strictest  fidelity  to  the  dimen- 
sions you  sent  me.  As  to  the  division  between  the  an- 
gels, I  am  delighted  if  you  have  done  anything  to  them 
which  brings  it  more  to  what  you  wish.  I  certainly 
think  I  would  like  it  better  if  you  destroy  the  doorway 
look.  That  effect  was  the  result  of  a  misunderstanding, 
so  much  so  that  when  you  telegraphed  me  to  keep  darks 
under  figures,  I  understood  it  to  mean  to  accentuate 

205 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

the  divisions  even  stronger  than  indicated  in  the  first 
photograph  I  sent  you,  to  which  I  understood  the  tele- 
gram was  a  reply.  Consequently  I  did  so.  I  am  glad 
if  you  have  changed  it.  I  fully  understand,  sympa- 
thize and  appreciate  what  you  have  said  about  it  all. 
I  hope  you  will  understand  the  spirit  in  which  all  this 
is  written  and  rest  assured  that  I  not  only  take  all  you 
have  said  about  my  work  and  the  principle  generally 
in  the  best  spirit,  but  that  I  agree  most  heart- 
ily.    ..     . 

One  more  valuable  letter  remains,  written  during  a  short  trip 
to  Italy.  It  is  a  final  comment  upon  the  composition  which 
had  interested  them  both  so  much. 

41  Piazza  Barberini,  Rome,  Jan.  30,  1878. 
My  dear  Mr,  La  Farge: 

We  have  been  here  about  three  weeks  and  I  have 
only  just  got  to  work,  having  found  great  difficulty  in 
getting  a  studio.  On  our  way  down  we  stopped  at 
Pisa.  I  assure  you  that  was  enough  to  set  my  head 
spinning.  There  are  on  the  vault  over  the  high  altar 
at  the  entrance  to  the  chancel,  angels  by  Cimabue, 
greatly  spoiled  by  restoration,  that  are  very  much  in 
the  character  of  what  we  have  done  in  the  sculpture. 
These  angels,  that  are  very  fine,  are  in  couples  over  one 
another,  and  had  I  seen  them  before  I  did  my  work  I 
would  have  avoided  much  that  is  bad.  Italy  has  a 
greater  charm  to  me  than  ever,  and  I  should  not  be  at 
all  surprised  if  I  remained  here  all  the  time  I  am  doing 
my  work.    I  wish  I  had  to  do  the  angels  over  again 

206 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

and  could  do  them  here;  for  even  here,  where  there  is 
comparatively  little  of  the  Renaissance,  there  is  still 
much  to  see.     .    .    . 

Before  closing  the  account  of  the  St.  Thomas  angels,  I  will 
dwell  for  a  moment  more  upon  the  public  reception  given  this 
work,  since  the  enthusiasm  aroused  by  it  largely  prepared  the 
way  for  the  coming  of  the  Shaw.  The  attitude  of  contempo- 
rary artists  is  well  expressed  in  this  letter  written  to  my  father 
by  Wyatt  Eaton : 

"Two  things  are  talked  of  in  New  York  at  present.  The 
American  Artists'  Association  and  the  decorations  of  St. 
Thomas'  Church.  I  have  been  twice,  the  third  time  the 
church  was  not  open.  I  cannot  tell  you,  St.  Gaudens,  how 
much  I  am  delighted.  I  am  sure  that  you  don't  know,  and  I 
question  if  your  friends  in  Paris  know  how  good  your  things 
are.  I  say  that  you  don't  know,  because  you  must  have  worked 
too  intently  and  steadily  and  probably  boxed  them  as  soon  as, 
or  before  you  left  off  working  upon  them,  and  that  your  friends 
in  Paris  do  not  know,  for  in  your  studio  or  in  any  light  in 
which  you  were  able  to  show  them,  their  full  sentiment  and 
meaning  could  not  be  felt. 

I  have  never  seen  any  sculpture  so  well  managed  for  similar 
circumstances,  light  and  distance.  Seen  from  the  nearest 
point  the  work  is  complete  and  all  that  could  be  desired  with- 
out any  sense  of  a  lack  of  detail — the  important  forms  are 
simple  and  massive — which  makes  the  expression  by  gesture 
to  be  intensely  felt.  From  the  extreme  end  of  the  building 
nothing  is  lost.  On  the  contrary  I  believe  that  every  quality 
is  still  stronger.  I  feel  that  your  figures  have  the  purity  and 
sincerity  of  the  early  Italians  and  the  force  and  effect  of  the 
later  and  modern  art.  You  will  have  something  to  see  when 
you  return  to  America.  I  hope  that  you  may  also  have  op- 
portunity in  your  other  work. 

209 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

But  one  of  La  Farge's  paintings  is  up.  The  effect  and 
color  is  beautiful.  It  might  be  an  old  piece  of  tapestry  col- 
ored by  a  Venetian  master.  But  I  feel  that  the  composition  is 
neglected — and  I  am  told  that  this  is  true.  One  of  the  figures 
I  don't  like  at  all. 

The  whole  effect — or  the  effect  of  the  whole — is  not  yet 
complete  and  I  have  not  given  it  much  attention.  The  win- 
dows, although  probably  improved,  are  still  out  of  harmony, 
I  think. 

I  will  write  more  about  the  movement  of  the  American  Art- 
ists' Association  very  soon.        Sincerely, 

Wyatt  Eaton. 

So  much  for  the  actual  attempt  at  the  time.  Ultimately? 
as  is  fairly  well  known,  the  reliefs  and  Mr.  La  Farge's  paint- 
ings were  destroyed  by  fire  when  St.  Thomas'  Church  was 
burned  in  1905.  A  cast  of  a  cherub's  head,  owned  by  Mr. 
Francis  Allen  of  Boston,  is  now  all  that  remains. 

These  angels  then  formed  the  center  of  the  relations  be- 
tween my  father  and  Mr.  La  Farge.  Yet  in  his  text  my  father 
mentions  one  other  commission  they  worked  upon  jointly,  the 
tomb  for  Mrs.  Mary  A.  King  to  go  over  the  grave  of  her  hus- 
band, Edward  King,  in  Newport,  Rhode  Island.  The  com- 
mission was  wholly  an  architectural  one,  there  being  no  figures 
about  the  cross.  Nevertheless,  it  was  just  such  work  as  this 
under  La  Farge  that  led  Saint-Gaudens  all  his  life  thereafter, 
in  addition  to  his  desire  for  unity  and  grace,  to  lay  stress  on 
detailed  craftsmanship  and  the  decorative  quality  of  surround- 
ings. Only  two  letters  which  bear  on  this  commission  have 
any  vital  interest.  The  first  is  from  my  father  to  Mr.  La 
Farge : 

June  12th. 
My  dear  Mr.  La  Farge: 

.  .  .  Armstrong,  who  is  living  with  us,  wrote 
Mrs.  King  that  he  had  seen  the  tomb  and  thought  it 

210 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

one  of  the  most  beautiful  he  had  ever  seen.  I  have  not 
put  black  in  the  letters.  It  cannot  be  got  out  well. 
When  I  send  the  work  I  will  give  you  informa- 
tion as  to  how  the  column  must  be  fastened  to  the 
tomb.     .     .     . 

I  took  it  from  casts  of  some  of  the  fine  old  columns 
"life  size"  that  there  are  in  the  school  here.  I  have  left 
the  material  for  the  leaves  on  the  four  corners,  but  have 
not  decided  on  them  yet.  I  guess  I  '11  have  them  done. 
If  you  don't  like  it,  have  them  taken  off. 

"I  'm  going  to  remain  in  Paris  until  all  my  work  is 
done.  My  studio  in  the  Rue  Notre  Dame  des  Champs 
is  No.  49.  I  had  the  fever  in  Rome  and  could  n't  re- 
main. Your  picture  at  the  Exposition  looks  well  and 
a  lot  of  artists  beside  myself  think  it  one  of  the  pictures 
of  the  Exposition.  You  should  have  had  some  of  your 
flowers,  your  drawings  for  Trinity  and  perhaps  a  pho- 
tograph of  St.  Thomas  and  I  have  no  doubt  you  would 
have  had  a  medal.  Millet  is  the  American  juryman 
and  from  his  talk  I  am  sure  he  feels  as  we  all  do  about 
you.     My  regards  to  Mrs.  La  Farge. 

Sincerely  your  friend, 

Aug.  St.-Gaudens. 

To  which  La  Farge  replied  finally: 

My  dear  Mr.  St.-Gaudens: 

In  general  the  thing  looks  like  a  success.  Perhaps 
more  so  in  the  open  air  and  sunlight.  The  column  is  not  yet 
on  the  pedestal,  but  the  little  base  of  the  column  looks  very 
pretty,   and   the   swell  of  the   column  looks   very   successful. 

211 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Compared  to  the  usual  tombstone,  this  certainly  looks  not  at 
all  of  the  same  kind.  I  only  regret  that  we  did  not  have  some- 
thing more  severe  comme  donnee. 

When  I  get  a  photograph  in  the  open  air  with  sun  I  shall 
send  you  one.  Everybody  so  far  is  pleased  except  the  stone- 
cutters here  who  think  that  the  work  does  not  look  finished. 
They  are  evidently  disguised  New  York  Academicians — or 
writers  on  the  Evening  Post — and  we  need  not  worry  about 
them. 


212 


VIII 
PARIS  ACTIVITIES 

1878-1880 

Paris  Activities — Friendship  with  Stanford  White — Bas-reliefs — 
Bastien-Lepage — White's  Letters — The  Morgan  Tomb — The  Ran- 
dall Monument — Struggles  with  the  Farragut  Monument. 

THE  rush  of  the  completion  of  the  St.  Thomas'  reliefs 
being  over,  my  father's  Parisian  life  began  to  assume 
coherence.  As  is  often  the  case,  his  scanty  reference 
to  his  studio  work  needs  elaboration.  In  three  of  the  com- 
missions of  which  he  makes  so  brief  a  mention,  the  "Farra- 
gut," the  "Morgan  Tomb"  Angels,  and  the  "Randall,"  Stan- 
ford White  proved  of  invaluable  aid  to  the  sculptor ;  and  it 
is  largely  through  the  architect's  intimate  letters  that  I  am 
able  to  give  so  vivid  a  picture  of  my  father's  endeavors  at 
the  time.  The  friendship  between  Saint-Gaudens  and  White 
dated,  according  to  the  former's  own  account,  from  the  day 
they  first  met  in  the  German  Savings  Bank  Building.  More 
probably,  however,  what  brought  the  two  together  was  that 
both  served  an  apprenticeship  under  their  respective  mentors 
simultaneously  during  the  construction  of  Trinity  Church  in 
Boston,  Massachusetts.  My  father,  as  has  been  explained, 
had  obtained  work  under  John  La  Farge,  then  in  charge  of 
the  decoration  of  this  building,  while  White,  who  had  entered 
the  employ  of  the  architect,  H.  H.  Richardson,  in  1872,  slaved 
for  him  until  1878,  being  in  especial  Richardson's  chief  fac- 
totum during  the  building  of  the  church. 

Whatever  the  fashion  of  their  meeting,  my  father  obviously 
found  White's  high  artistic  ideals  so  thoroughly  in  keeping 
with  his   own   that   the   intimacy  matured   rapidly,   until  my 

213 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

father  left  for  this  three  years'  trip  to  Europe.  Between  his 
departure  and  White's  joining  him  came  the  first  period  when 
the  mutual  interests  of  the  two,  so  separated,  prompted  the 
opening  series  of  letters  chiefly  centering  upon  the  architecture 
which  White  designed  for  the  Morgan  Monument.  Returning 
from  Europe  White  began  work  upon  the  Randall  and  Far- 
ragut  pedestals;  so  that,  from  then  on  until  my  father  set 
foot  in  America  once  more  in  1880,  there  developed  the  second 
group  of  letters  that  dealt  for  the  most  part  with  these  two 
commissions. 

In  the  reminiscences  my  father  writes: 

I  had  hired  an  enormous  studio  in  the  Rue  Notre 
Dame  des  Champs,  in  order  to  begin  the  large  statue 
of  Farragut,  as  well  as  the  sketches  for  the  figures  that 
were  to  go  over  a  mausoleum  Governor  Morgan  had 
commissioned  me  to  do  for  him  in  Hartford,  Connecti- 
cut. The  studio  had  originally  been  a  public  ball- 
room, and  subsequently  a  printing  establishment  of  one 
of  the  big  publishers  of  Paris.  For  my  family  I  leased 
an  apartment  in  the  Rue  Herschel,  where  Mr.  Arm- 
strong lived  with  us  during  the  period  of  the  Exposi- 
tion business.  It  was  here  that  White  came  to  us, 
and  in  this  studio  he  composed  and  made  the  studies 
for  the  pedestal  of  the  Farragut  monument,  which  he 
modified  after  his  return  to  America.  Not  until  the 
"Farragut"  was  at  last  ready  to  go  to  the  bronze 
founder,  did  I  leave  this  ball-room  studio  to  take  a  less 
ambitious  one  in  the  Impasse  du  Maine  where  I  began 
the  model  for  the  statue  of  Robert  Richard  Randall. 

At  this  earlier  time,  in  addition  to  my  larger  commis- 
sions, I  made  medallions  of  Maynard,  Millet,  Picknell, 

214 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Shiff,  and  Bunce,  which  I  exhibited  at  the  Paris  Salon, 
along  with  the  statue  of  Farragut,  in  1879.  Then, 
too,  through  a  mutual  friend  I  met  Bastien-Lepage, 
who  was  in  the  height  of  the  renown  he  had  achieved  by 
his  painting  of  Joan  of  Arc.  This  picture  Mr.  Irwin 
Davis  subsequently  purchased  and,  at  my  earnest 
recommendation,  gave  to  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of 
Art.  Lepage  was  short,  bullet-headed,  athletic  and  in 
comparison  with  the  majority  of  my  friends,  dandified 
in  dress.  I  recall  his  having  been  at  the  Beaux  Arts 
during  the  period  I  studied  there,  and  my  disliking  him 
for  this  general  cockiness.  He  asked  if  I  would  make 
a  medallion  of  him  in  exchange  for  a  portrait  of  myself. 
Of  course  I  agreed  to  the  proposal,  and  as  his  studio 
was  not  far  from  mine,  the  medallion  was  modeled  dur- 
ing a  period  when  he  was  unable  to  work  on  account 
of  a  sprained  ankle.  He  moved  away  shortly  after- 
ward, and  I  saw  little  of  him  except  for  the  four  hours 
a  day  when  I  posed  for  the  full-length  sketch  he  made 
of  me.  This  painting  was  destroyed  in  the  fire  which 
burned  my  studio  in  1904. 

Here  I  will  invert  my  father's  order,  and  refer  to  his  smaller 
work  before  I  speak  of  the  larger  efforts  and  their  connection 
with  Stanford  White. 

Of  all  the  lesser  commissions  modeled  at  the  time,  the  low  re- 
liefs, in  especial  were  of  importance,  as  they  marked  the  real 
commencement  of  the  series  of  medallions  which  he  developed 
through  his  life  until  they  became  the  one  form  of  his  art  in 
which  he  considered  himself  a  master.  He  has  already  spoken 
of  the  encouragement  which  La  Farge  gave  him  in  the  New 

215 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

York  days.  Therefore,  in  Paris,  upon  seeing  the  portrait  of 
"A  Man  with  a  Hat,"  by  the  French  sculptor,  Chapu,  his  in- 
terest was  so  forcibly  renewed  that  he  promptly  set  out  to 
model  bas-reliefs  of  the  group  of  artists  about  him,  almost  all 
being  nearly  half  life-size,  and  treated  much  more  freely  than 
those  in  later  years.  Mr.  Gilder  has  written  me  a  word  con- 
cerning this  side  of  my  father's  endeavors. 

My  dear  Homer: 

.  .  .  We  were  in  Paris  at  the  time  your  father  was  work- 
ing on  the  Farragut.  I  remember  I  with  others  stood  occa- 
sionally for  the  legs.  Also  he  was  making  the  St.  Thomas 
angels  (the  suggestion  for  which  he  found  La  Farge  had 
traced,  by  the  way)  and  the  beginning  of  those  exquisite  low- 
relief  portraits.  He  did  our  little  family.  The  separate  head 
of  Rodman  was  a  great  hit.  At  that  time  he  was  asked  to 
make  some  portrait  heads  for  some  French  concern.  This  he 
could  not  undertake,  but  immediately  afterwards  a  young 
French  sculptor  glued  his  eyes  on  the  Saint-Gaudens'  low-re- 
liefs and  began  producing  that  sort  of  thing  himself,  to  suit 
the  market  or  the  men  who  wanted  Saint-Gaudens  to  do 
it.     .     .     . 

In  the  combined  portraits  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gilder  and  of 
Rodman  Gilder  my  father  first  completed  a  relief  in  which  the 
heads  of  two  sitters  faced  one  another.  Such  a  task  presents 
unusual  technical  difficulties,  as  the  conventional  profile  medal- 
lion is  modeled  only  to  be  seen  with  the  light  coming  "over  the 
shoulder,"  while  this  more  ambitious  attempt  had  to  be  con- 
structed so  as  to  look  well  in  any  light.  Nevertheless  the 
problem  fascinated  the  sculptor,  since  he  returned  to  it  three 
times  later  in  life  in  the  portraits  of  Miss  Sarah  Redwood  Lee 
and  Mrs.  Charles  Carroll  Lee,  William  Dean  Howells  and  his 
daughter,  and  Wayne  MacVeagh  and  his  wife. 

Yet  none  of  the  medallions  my  father  then  modeled  satisfied 
him  to  the  extent  of  that  of  Bastien-Lepage,  both  because  he 

216 


BASTIKN-I.Kl'AGli 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

believed  the  relief  was  as  near  perfection  as  he  ever  came,  and 
because  he  was  greatly  interested  in  a  rare  combination  of 
talent  and  vanity  in  his  sitter.  His  attitude  towards  Lepage's 
art  needs  no  other  expression  than  his  own.  His  memories 
of  the  painter's  conceits  he  left  unrecorded.  One  in  espe- 
cial, however,  remains  by  me:  my  father's  amusement  in  Le- 
page's often  telling  him  not  to  draw  the  hands  too  large, 
the  painter  giving,  as  an  excuse  for  his  attitude,  the  reason 
that  the  hands  were  of  small  importance  in  comparison  with 
the  rest  of  the  figure. 

The  portrait  which  Lepage,  in  return,  painted  of  my  father, 
hung  upon  the  walls  of  our  New  York  home  in  Washington 
Place  and  Forty-fifth  Street  for  many  years.  My  father  and 
my  family  prized  it  greatly,  for  though  it  did  not  resemble 
him  distinctly  in  detail,  it  gave  a  clear  feeling  of  his  person- 
ality. 

In  another  way,  too,  the  medallion  nearly  led  to  further 
pleasures,  as  upon  Lepage's  showing  his  copy  to  the  Prin- 
cess of  Wales,  she  immediately  suggested  that  my  father 
make  the  portrait  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  afterwards  King 
Edward  VII.  Here  is  a  translation  of  the  first  of  the  letters 
dealing  with  the  subject: 

My  dear  St.-Gaudens: 

I  have  some  news  to  tell  you  which  will  give  you  much  pleas- 
ure and  which  you  can  use  when  the  occasion  offers. 

The  other  day  at  a  reception  in  Grosvenor  Gallery  the  Prin- 
cess of  Wales  strongly  admired  your  medallion  and  asked  me 
your  name.  She  seemed  to  wish  to  know  you  and,  I  think,  also 
to  possess  some  little  work  such  as  those  you  have  exhibited. 

I  proposed  to  her  to  write  to  you  immediately,  but  she  told 
me  not  to  write  you  on  her  account.  In  any  event  I  am  warn- 
ing you,  and  I  will  arrange  matters  in  such  a  fashion  that  you 
will  be  able  to  take  advantage  of  this  incident  at  a  moment's 
notice. 

219 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

I  have  no  photograph  of  the  "Jeanne  d'Arc."  As  soon  as  I 
obtain  some  I  will  send  you  one. 

My  best  wishes,  in  haste,  J.  Bastien-Lepage. 

Unfortunately,  my  father  could  remain  only  a  little  longer 
in  Europe,  so  the  relief  was  never  modeled. 

From  this  lesser  work  I  will  turn  again  to  the  more  impor- 
tant commissions,  with  the  elaborations  by  White,  of  which  my 
father  has  spoken.  In  taking  up  the  matter  of  the  Morgan 
tomb,  for  the  sake  of  continuity,  I  shall  group  the  letters  which 
passed  between  the  two  men  according  to  their  subject  rather 
than  their  dates.     Here  first  are  four  of  White's: 

118  East  Tenth  Street,  New  York. 
My  dear  St.-Gaudens: 

What  ragged  letters  I  have  been  writing  you.  Three  to 
one,  I  believe  this  is.  But  then  yours,  though  I  confess  some- 
what desultory,  was  a  royal  one  and  paid  up  for  a  dozen  of 
mine.  ...  I  should  n't  wonder  but  that  Morgan  would 
go  the  nine  thousand  dollars  for  the  tomb,  provided  the  other 
sculptor  estimates  higher  than  you  do.  Which  I  feel  sure  he 
will.  Now  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  cussing  and  swearing  all 
this  while  and  saying,  "Confound  the  man,  the  thing  can't  be 
done  for  anywhere  near  the  sum,"  etc.  In  that  case,  my  dear 
boy,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  think  up  some  brilliant  idea  that 
can.  And  as  for  the  hundred  or  two  dollars,  let  them  go. 
By  the  way,  how  long  will  you  take  to  do  the  work;  I  mean 
finished  in  stone?  I  told  Morgan  eighteen  months  to  two 
years.     How's  that,  me  boy? 

I  hope  you  will  let  me  help  you  on  the  Farragut  pedestal. 
Then  I  should  go  down  to  Fame,  even  if  it  was  bad,  reviled 
for  making  a  poor  base  to  a  good  statue.     .     .     . 

Dear  St.-Gaudens: 

Enclosed  you  will  find  a  very  rough  and  very  bad  sketch 
traced  from  a  hasty-finished-up  drawing  of  Morgan's  tomb. 

220 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

He  has  accepted  it  and  wishes  us  to  go  right  ahead,  and  you 
to  start  work  the  minute  you  get  in  Paris.  The  commission 
always  charged  in  monumental  work  is  from  ten  to  twenty- 
five  percent,  according  to  the  size  and  cost  of  the  work.  He 
said  he  would  n't  give  more  than  five  percent  to  any  man,  etc., 
etc.  My  first  inclination  was  to  pick  up  my  hat  and  bid  him 
good-morning.  But  I  remembered  that  I  was  poor,  and 
young,  and  had  run  in  debt  to  get  abroad,  and  that  it  might 
interfere  with  you.  So  I  told  him  I  would  think  over  the 
matter,  which  I  did,  and  swallowed  my  pride  and  principles 
and  accepted  his  five  percent.  Now,  my  dear  boy,  I  am 
afraid  I  have  given  you  too  much  work  for  your  shilling,  but 
in  case  I  have  not  and  you  will  be  able  to  make  a  respectable 
profit  on  it,  I  may  ask  you  to  give  me  a  hundred  or  two  dollars. 
I  do  this  because  I  shall  have  to  superintend  the  putting  up 
of  your  work  and  because  my  first  sketch  included  the  whole 
thing.  But  in  case  Morgan  is  as  hard  on  you  as  he  is  on  me, 
why  we  will  grin  and  bear  it  together.  However,  we  will  ar- 
range that  when  we  meet,  though  in  no  case  will  I  listen  to 
your  paying  me  anything  unless  you  make  a  little  pile  your- 
self. Morgan  said  he  would  limit  me  to  twenty  thousand  dol- 
lars. I  allowed  you  eight  thousand  and  my  estimate  barely 
scrapes  under  the  twelve  thousand  remaining.  Now,  old  boy, 
I  am  afraid  I  have  not  allowed  you  enough.  Your  work  will 
include  the  band  of  angels  around  the  column,  and  four  little 
symbolic  figures  at  angles  of  the  superstructure.  However,  I 
may  get  into  a  row  with  Morgan  before  I  leave  and  the  tomb 
may  go  up  too.  But  I  will  try  not.  I  will  write  again  next 
mail,  and  close  abruptly,  with  my  respects  to  your  wife  and 
love  to  you. 

June  81,  1878. 
Dear  St.-Gaudens: 

Yours  just  received  this  morning,  and  I  thank  the  Lord  for 
getting   it.     I   began   to   think   you  were   disgusted   with  me, 

221 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

which  would  have  been  very  wrong,  or  that  you  were  again 
attacked  with  the  fever,  which  would  have  been  worse;  or, 
which  would  be  worst  of  all,  that  you  had  gone  to  Rome, 
which  I  hope  to  heaven  you  will  not  do  until  after  I  have  left 
Paris. 

It  is  just  like  you  to  offer  me  a  bunk.  Do  you  think  I 
would  inflict  myself  upon  you?  We  shall  see.  .  .  .  Who 
do  you  think  is  coming  with  me?  Even  McKim.  I  am  tick- 
led to  death.  He  is  coming  over  for  but  a  six  weeks'  trip; 
still  it  is  perfectly  jolly.  We  will  land  at  Havre  and  take  the 
express  train  for  Paris,  and  so  will  arrive  there  I  suppose 
about  the  fifteenth  or  sixteenth.  I  will  pay  my  respects  to 
you  immediately. 

I  have  come  to  the  conclusion,  and  I  feel  almost  sure  that 
you  will  too,  that  eight  figures  will  be  too  much  for  the  monu- 
ment. So  my  present  idea  is  as  follows:  at  the  front  put 
four  figures  of  angels,  well  in  relief.  .  .  .  But  on  the 
sides  and  back  arrange  some  conventional  foliage  or  flowers. 
It  would  give  it  more  dignity  and,  it  seems  to  me,  a  center  of 
interest  which  the  mere  ring  of  angels  would  not  have.  How- 
ever, all  this  is  your  work  and  for  you  and  you  only  to  decide, 
and  I  am  going  to  impress  the  same  on  Morgan.  The  above 
scheme  would  only  have  five  figures  and  would  give  both  you 
and  the  cutters  less  work,  would  it  not?  .  .  .  However, 
not  considering  any  two  or  three  hundred  dollars  to  me,  what 
you  want  to  do  is  to  estimate  on  the  work,  giving  a  full  and 
fair  profit  to  yourself.  Then  if  Morgan  refuses  to  accept, 
let  us  cook  up  some  scheme  that  will  come  within  the  fig- 
ure.    .     . 

Nov.  2,  1879. 
Dear  Gaudens: 

I  think  the  Morgan  angels  splendid.     Look  out  you  don't 
get  them  too  picturesque.     I  think  the  tree  trunk  should  be 
much  thicker,  especially  at  the  base.     .     .     . 
The  following  is  from  my  father  to  White: 

222 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

November  6,  1879. 

.  .  .  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  the  disposition 
of  the  figures  as  you  see  them  in  the  photograph.  I  Ve 
tried  putting  two  angels  between  the  trees  instead  of 
one.  But  it  would  n't  work.  What  I  want  you  to  do 
is  to  have  the  molding  in  the  stone  directly  under  the 
figures  left  uncut  because  I  think  it  would  be  better 
straight  up,  with  the  lettering  running  around  occupy- 
ing the  space  the  molding  would  take. 

I  have  indicated  the  inscription  a  little  and  you  can 
see  it  in  the  photograph.  Tell  me  what  you  think  of 
this  and  if  it  can  be  done,  or  what  you  can  suggest  in- 
stead. Or  is  it  absolutely  necessary  that  that  molding 
should  be  there?  Again  tell  me  how  you  like  the  tree 
^ind  whether  you  would  object  to  its  coming  over,  and 
consequently  almost  entirely  concealing  the  molding 
over  the  angels.  Or  must  I  make  the  leafage  come 
under  the  molding?  About  this  your  word  is 
law.     .    .     . 

I  '11  finish  the  cross  in  a  day  or  so,  now  that  I  have 
leisure,  and  send  it  right  on.  I  don't  think  I  '11  write 
Morgan  until  then,  and  when  I  do  shall  say  but  few 
words  and  send  you  a  copy  of  what  I  send  him.     .     .     . 

Again  from  White  to  my  father: 

Saturday  night. 
Beloved: 

.  .  .  By  all  means  I  think  you  had  better  write  Morgan 
about  his  angels.  I  think  they  are  busting  and  so  do  all  of 
us.  But  Morgan,  and  above  all  Mrs.  Morgan,  may  have  some 
preconceived  notions.     So,  if  you  write,  she  will  know  some- 

223 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

thing  what  to  expect.  The  chief  reason  I  say  this  is  because 
somebody  was  in  the  office  and  saw  the  photographs  and  asked 
me  if  it  was  a  musical  party,  and  seemed  somewhat  shocked 
when  I  told  him  it  was  over  a  tomb.  Some  people  always 
think  of  death  as  a  gloomy  performance  instead  of  a  resur- 
rection. So  I  think  I  should  write  them  a  note  about  looking 
at  death  as  a  resurrection,  etc.,  etc. ;  that  you  had  placed  three 
angels  in  front,  one  praying,  two  playing  on  the  harp  and 
lute,  and  all  chanting  the  lines,  Alleluia,  etc.,  etc.,  which  were 
written  underneath,  and  that  from  the  back  springs  a  symbol 
of  the  tree  of  life,  the  leaves  of  which  form  a  cover  over  the 
heads  of  the  angels.  .  .  .  You  of  course  will  write  this  a 
big  sight  better,  and  I  only  bore  you  with  it  because  two  fel- 
lows sometimes  think  more  than  one. 

About  the  angels,  I  think  they  are  perfectly  lovely.  Mc- 
Kim  said,  "By  golly,  what  a  fellow  St.-Gaudens  is!"  and  bor- 
rowed them  to  show  Mrs.  Butler.  Bunch  and  Weir  thought 
they  were  gorgeous.  And  even  Babb  said  "h-m-m  h-m,"  which 
is  lots  for  him.     .     . 

As  for  the  angels  in  the  front,  I  will  get  down  on  my  knees 
and  say  nothing.  I  think  you  should  make  the  tree  trunks 
and  limbs  and  foliage  very  architectural.  I  like,  however, 
the  trunk  and  limb  shown  on  the  three-quarter  view,  very  much. 
I  am  sure  I  would  make  the  angel  behind  with  a  scroll.  I  have 
enclosed  some  tracings  I  made  over  the  photographs.  I  would 
not  have  the  edge  of  the  leafage  so  sharp  and  flat.  You  cer- 
tainly want  deep  masses  and  dark  shadows.  But  you  must 
take  care  to  make  your  holes  so  the  water  will  run  off.  Then 
when  it  freezes  it  won't  take  off  a  head  or  a  hand  or  a  leaf. 
I  think  some  of  the  leaves  should  be  well  under  cover.  But  in 
no  case  let  the  light  of  heaven  come  through  the  canopy  of 
leaves.     That  is  to  say,  don't  have  a  hole  in  it. 

Such  is  the  story  of  the  Morgan  tomb,  as  the  two  young 
men  struggled  with  the  commission  during  this  stage  of  its 

224 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

progress.     The  correspondence  now  takes  up  the  Randall  and 
Farragut  monuments.     White  writes: — 

May  8th,  1880. 
Bear  old  Boy: 

.  .  .  I  suppose  you  will  have  to  give  up  your  visit  to 
Lille  and  the  Low  Countries.  But  do  not  miss  a  day  at  the 
South  Kensington  and  a  day  at  the  British  Museum.  Be  sure 
not  to.  It  will  fire  you  all  up.  Go  to  the  Royal  Academy, 
too,  and  see  the  early  fellows  there.     .     .     . 

Sometime  in  January  I  received  a  letter  from  Thos.  Green- 
leaf,  controller  of  Sailors'  Snug  Harbor,  asking  me  to  call  on 
him  in  reference  to  the  Randall  pedestal.  ...  So  I  pre- 
pared for  the  committee  a  drawing  from  our  first  sketch  that 
I  am  sure  would  have  come  out  well.  The  seat  was  about 
forty  feet  across.  In  front  of  the  pedestal  was  a  long  stone 
on  which  I  thought  you  could  put  a  relief  of  a  yawl-boat  in  a 
storm  or  something  of  the  kind,  and  around  the  back  of  the 
seat  there  ran  a  bronze  inscription.  All  this  cost  about  seven 
thousand  five  hundred  dollars.  Also,  to  make  sure,  I  prepared 
an  alternative  design,  costing  about  four  thousand  five  hun- 
dred dollars. 

I  sent  these  two  with  a  strong  letter,  insisting  on  your  de- 
sire to  have  a  horizontal  line  to  oppose  your  perpendicular 
one,  and  strongly  advocating  blue  stone.  So  far  everything 
had  gone  all  right.  .  .  .  But  I  knew  Babcock  was  on  the 
Committee,  and  so  did  not  go  off  on  any  exultation  war-whoops 
to  you.  I  knew  him  only  too  well.  Six  weeks  passed.  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  Dr.  Dix  asking  me  to  meet  him,  Dr.  Pax- 
ton  and  Mr.  Babcock  in  reference  to  the  pedestal.  ...  I 
don't  know  whether  you  know  Babcock.  He  is  President  of 
the  Board  of  Commerce,  one  of  the  sharpest  business  men  in 
New  York.  In  the  first  place  they  (he)  did  not  want  the 
seat,  would  not  have  it  under  any  considerations.  They  (he) 
wanted  a  single  pedestal  like  those  in  the  Park.  The  "Web- 
ster" was  the  best.     (It 's  the  worst  thing  in  the  city.)     Had  I 

225 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

seen  the  "Webster"?  No,  I  had  n't.  Well  I'd  better  see  it,  as 
I  could  then  form  some  idea  of  what  they  (he)  wanted. 

I  thanked  him  and  said  I  supposed  that  the  reason  they 
consulted  me  was  to  have  something  that  you  wanted,  and  in 
all  cases  that  was  what  /  proposed  to  make.  Babcock  got  red 
in  the  face,  but  Dix  came  to  my  support  and  said  "Pre- 
cisely."    .     .     . 

Then  Babcock  objected  to  blue  stone  and  said  the  base  must 
be  of  granite.  They  asked  me  to  prepare  a  new  design 
to  be  presented  at  next  month's  meeting  of  the  board,  and 
Babcock  made  the  enlightened  proposition  that  I  need  only 
make  the  sketch,  as  all  "these  granite  men"  had  draughtsmen 
in  their  employ  who  would  make  all  the  details,  and  save  me  a 
lot  of  trouble. 

I  thereupon,  in  your  name  and  mine,  distinctly  refused  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  it,  unless  the  work  was  to  be  carried 
out  properly,  and  Dix  again  came  to  my  assistance  with  "Pre- 
cisely.    I  suppose  the  work  will  be  cut  under  your  direction." 

"Certainly,"  I  replied,  "or  not  at  all."     Then  I  cleared  out. 

The  second  design  I  made  as  severe  and  simple  as  possible, 
one  stone  on  top  of  another.  I  should  have  made  it  like  your 
sketch  in  the  photograph  but  it  had  to  be  made  in  two  stones 
on  account  of  the  enormous  expense  of  one — as  it  is,  the  ap- 
proximate estimates  came  to  four  thousand  six  hundred  dol- 
lars. Since  sending  the  sketches  I  have  heard  nothing  from 
them.  Perhaps  they  are  disgusted  with  the  plainness  of  the 
design.  If  so,  I  should  say,  as  you  have  to  furnish  the  design, 
that  that  is  a  matter  for  you  to  settle.  Perhaps  Babcock  is 
having  one  of  his  "granite  men  who — etc."  carry  out  the  de- 
sign. If  he  has  I  shall  have  the  whole  office  of  Evarts,  South- 
mayd  &  Choate  down  on  him.  But  this  is  not  at  all  likely. 
They  are  probably,  like  most  committees,  inactive.  I  shall 
stir  Dix  up  and  find  out  what  has  been  settled  on. 

There,  I  've  written  you  a  long  letter.  Believe  me  it  is  more 
trouble  to  write  than  I  've  been  to  in  the  whole  affair.     I  en- 

226 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

joyed  making  the  first  designs  and  have  them  for  my  pains. 
Otherwise,  save  my  contempt  for  Babcock,  I  have  got  along 
well  with  everybody.  If  the  committee  so  "graciously  decide," 
I  shall  put  the  thing  through,  and  if  we  can  strike  them  for 
anything  well  and  good.  But  if  you  say  anything  more  about 
"bill"  to  me  I  '11  retaliate  on  you  in  a  way  you  least  expect. 
I  am  writing  this  on  the  train  between  Newport  and  New  York 
which  may  account  for  its  more  than  legible  hand-writing. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  driven  I  am  with  business  on  account 
of  McKim's  absence  from  the  office.  For  the  last  month  I 
have  been  nearly  frantic,  being  often  at  my  office  till  midnight. 
Poor  McKim  is  much  better  but  still  unable  to  work.  He  will 
have  to  go  abroad  again.  He  will  be  devilish  sorry  to  miss 
you.     .     .     . 

Greater  than  in  the  "Morgan"  and  the  "Randall"  combined, 
however,  was  my  father's  interest  in  the  "Farragut."  In- 
deed, during  the  course  of  its  development  he  grew  terribly 
anxious  over  the  result.  In  the  first  place  no  assurance  of 
future  work  had  yet  reached  him.  He  was  poor  as  usual. 
With  a  habit  which  continued  through  his  life,  he  had  vastly 
underestimated  the  period  of  time  he  would  require  in  which  to 
finish  his  task.  And,  to  cap  the  climax,  even  after  the  statue 
was  carried  to  successful  completion  in  the  studio,  and,  with 
the  date  of  the  unveiling  urgently  pressing,  had  gone  to  the 
bronze  foundry,  more  difficulties  developed.  For  the  molders, 
when  they  came  to  the  lower  half  of  the  figure,  neglected,  in 
their  haste,  to  attend  to  some  technicality,  with  such  disastrous 
results  that  my  father  and  mother  were  forced  to  hire  another 
apartment,  and  to  wait  abroad  another  six  weeks  in  their  pov- 
erty. 

It  is  with  many  such  troubles  surrounding  this,  the  most 
vital  of  my  father's  early  commissions,  that  White's  corre- 
spondence largely  deals.  One  especial  source  of  irritation 
grew  from  the  desire  of  both  my  father  and  White  to  create 
a  new  type  of  pedestal,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  required 

229 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

more  money  than  the  contract  provided.  Their  efforts  to 
obtain  this  additional  appropriation  were  in  vain.  Conse- 
quently, since  to  complete  the  work  according  to  their  ideals 
they  had  dipped  into  their  own  scant  funds  in  the  hope  of  an 
ultimate  repayment,  they  were  both  out  of  pocket  at  the  time 
of  the  unveiling. 

The  first  three  letters  are  from  White  to  my  father: 

Saturday,  September  6,  1879. 
'Hon  board  the  'Holympus. 

.  .  .  I  did  not  answer  your  question  about  the  height 
of  the  figure.  ...  I  ought  to  have  my  nose  flattened. 
But  I  was  n't  a  responsible  being,  so  "nuff  said."  My  feeling 
would  be  to  lower  it  by  all  means.  I  think  the  figure  would 
be  in  better  proportion  to  the  pedestal.  .  .  .  But  that  is 
a  matter  for  you  to  decide,  and  you  can  settle  it  very  easily 
by  having  Louis  make  a  Farragut  eight  feet  two  inches  in 
paper,  and  seeing  the  effect.  With  the  paper  pedestal  al- 
ready made  that  would  be  near  enough  to  judge.     .     .     . 

One  reason  I  did  not  answer  the  question  was  because  I 
thought  I  would  wait  until  I  could  see  the  "Lafayette"  in  Union 
Square  and  send  you  the  measure.  I  don't  care  about  the 
"Lafayette"  myself,  but  I  will  measure  it  immediately  on  my 
arrival  and  write  you  what  it  is.     .     .     . 

57  Broadway,  New  York  (Tuesday) 
My  Beloved  Snooks:  9th  SePt.,  1879. 

I  made  yesterday  three  unsuccessful  attempts  to  measure 
the  "Lafayette"  and  get  in  the  lock-up.  To-day  I  came  near 
succeeding  in  both.  Here  is  the  result:  It  is  impossible  to 
get  an  accurate  measure  without  a  step-ladder  and  a  requisi- 
tion on  the  city  government.  But  I  will  swear  that  it  is  not 
over  eight  feet  five  or  under  eight  feet  three.  If  it  had  not 
come  so  near  to  our  figure  I  should  have  telegraphed  you.  If 
you  still  stick  to  eight  feet  six  for  the  figure  alone  I  do  not 

230 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

think  you  will  go  much  wrong,  but  I  myself  should  most  cer- 
tainly advise  reducing  the  figure  and  base  to  eight  feet 
six.         .     .     . 

Feb.  24. 
Beloved: 

.  .  .  There  is  another  thing  I  wish  to  know  about,  viz., 
the  inscription.  I  submitted  to  my  Dad  a  draft  of  the  one  we 
decided  on  in  Paris,  and  then  took  it  up  and  saw  young  Far- 
ragut  and  Madame.  They  liked  it  very  much.  But  the  trou- 
ble is,  my  Dad  did  not  like  it  at  all.  He  said  it  would  be  a 
most  difficult  thing  to  do,  and  thinking,  until  lately,  that  you 
were  coming  over  in  May  and  that  you  would  have  time  to 
settle  its  definite  form  then,  I  planned  to  invest  in  Farragut's 
life  and  go  over  it  with  my  Dad,  and  then  let  him  make  up 
something  of  his  own,  which  we  could  talk  over  when  you  ap- 
peared. I  will  now  attend  to  it  at  once,  in  order  to  be  ready 
for  any  contingency.  Your  idea,  however,  is  to  draw  it  on 
the  stone  here,  and  perhaps  have  Louis  and  an  assistant  cut 
it,  is  it  not?     . 

.  .  .  I  have  been  to  the  site  for  the  "Farragut"  at  least 
fifty  times ;  sometimes  I  think  it  is  a  bully  site  and  sometimes 
I  think  a  better  one  might  be  found.  I  have  gone  there  with 
lots  of  people,  and  their  opinions  differ  as  much  as  mine  do. 
There  has  been  no  need  of  hurrying  about  it,  as  we  are  sure  of 
the  site  and  they  won't  begin  laying  the  foundations  before 
April. 

I  have  been  on  the  point  of  writing  the  formal  application 
to  the  Park  Commissioners  twice,  but  both  times  have  been 
stopped,  the  last  time  by  your  letter  saying  there  should  be 
twenty-five  feet  from  the  sidewalk  to  the  figure.  This  upset 
me,  for  in  that  site  it  can't  be  did.  I  went  up  with  tape  lines 
and  found  that  it  brought  the  figure  just  in  the  worst  place 
and  smack  into  the  path.  Your  wife's  letter,  however,  makes 
it  all  right. 

I  am  very  glad,  nevertheless,  that  I  was  stirred  up  in  my 

231 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

mind,  for  I  have  come  myself  to  the  almost  decided  conclusion 
that  the  Twenty-sixth  Street  corner  of  Madison  Park  and 
Fifth  Avenue  is  a  better  place.  It  is  more  removed  from  the 
other  statues  and  is  altogether  a  more  select,  quiet,  and  dis- 
tinguished place,  if  it  is  not  quite  so  public.  It  is  in  a  sweller 
part  of  the  Park,  just  where  the  aristocratic  part  of  the  Ave- 
nue begins  and  right  opposite  both  Delmonico's  and  the  Hotel 
Brunswick,  and  the  stream  of  people  walking  down  Fifth  Ave- 
nue would  see  it  at  once.  It  also  would  have  a  more  northerly 
light  and  you  would  n't  have  any  white  reflection  to  dread. 

My  dear  Gaudens: 

.  .  .  Olmsted  said  he  felt  very  sure  you  could  have  any 
site  you  might  choose.  He  still  favored  the  one  in  front  of 
the  Worth  monument  and  did  not  at  all  like  the  one  we  think 
of  in  Madison  Square.  He  thought  it  a  sort  of  shiftless  place, 
which  would  give  the  statue  no  prominence  whatever.  He 
seemed  to  think  it  might  be  anywhere  along  the  sidewalk,  as 
well  as  the  place  we  proposed.  He  suggested  the  following 
places:  in  the  triangles  formed  by  the  intersection  of  Broad- 
way and  Sixth  Avenue  (in  which  way  the  whole  of  the  little 
park  would  be  made  to  conform  to  the  pedestal),  or  at  a  place 
somewhere  near  the  entrance  to  Central  Park.  He  also  sug- 
gested just  north  of  the  fountain  in  Union  Square. 

I  myself  still  favor  the  Madison  Square  site,  its  very  quiet- 
ness being  a  recommendation.  Of  the  other  sites  the  one 
north  of  the  fountain  in  Union  Square  seemed  far  the  best. 

The  elevated  railway,  it'  seems  to  me,  knocks  the  others. 
We  could  not  take  a  place  directly  opposite  the  Fifth  Ave- 
nue Hotel.  We  could,  of  course,  but  just  above  it  is  by  far 
the  best  place.     .     .     . 

October  15th,  1879. 
Dear  (Saint-Gaudens*  Caricature): 

Sometime  ago  I  took  the  two  pedestals  to  La  Farge.     His 

232 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

criticism  was  very  quick  and  to  the  point.  He  liked  them 
both.  But  he  liked  the  first  sketch  the  better,  for  the  reason 
that  he  thought  it  simpler  and  more  of  a  whole,  and,  of  the 
two  designs,  he  liked  the  one  that  could  fall  back  on  precedent, 
rather  than  the  more  original  one,  unless  the  original  one  was 
so  astonishingly  good  that  it  compensated  for  its  strangeness. 
Funny,  coming  from  La  Farge,  was  n't  it? 

I  then  asked  him  to  sail  into  the  last  pedestal,  and  tell  us 
what  to  do,  and  how  to  better  it.  He  said  the  curving,  or 
rising,  of  the  line  upward  from  the  ends  toward  the  pedestal 
proper  was  an  insuperable  objection.  He  disliked  it  any  way, 
and  gave  as  his  chief  reason  that  it  was  antagonistic  with  the 
circular  plan  of  the  seat,  and  destroyed  the  perspective  al- 
most entirely.  He  liked  the  decorative  treatment  very  much 
and  the  dolphins  very  much. 

Now  the  only  thing  that  troubles  me  about  his  criticism  is 
his  objection  to  the  curved  rising  line  of  the  back  of  the  seat, 
for  the  reason  that  it  also  bothered  me  considerably  and  had 
lain  on  my  conscience  like  flannel-cakes  in  Summer.  I  am  sure 
it  will  not  look  well,  and  I  am  almost  equally  sure  that  a 
straight  back  or  one  very  slightly  and  subtly  rising  will.  Al- 
most everybody  (architects)  have  spoken  about  it.  Still,  if 
you  feel  very  strongly  about  it,  why,  let  us  keep  it.  I  send 
you  some  tracings  with  this,  and  you  can  see  what  I 
mean.     .     .     . 

Also,  you  clay-daubing  wretch,  why  did  you  not  tell  me 
which  site  you  wished?  You  wrote  me  that  you  thought  them 
all  "good."  I  myself  strongly  like  the  Madison  Square  site 
and  "so  do  we  all  of  us"  but  you  must  decide  and,  for  God's 
sake,  do  so,  and  then  hire  a  hall  forever  afterward. 

October  17th,  1879. 
My  dear  old  Boy: 

.     I  am  just  as  much  interested  in  the  success  of  the 
pedestal  as  you  are,  nor,  alas !  shall  I  see  many  such  chances  in 

233 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

my  life  to  do  work  in  so  entirely  an  artistic  spirit  unhampered 
by  the — well,  small  Hells  that  encircle  us  on  every  side,  women 
who  want  closets,  for  instance.     .     .     . 

I  had  begun  to  be  pretty  worried  and  scared,  for  both 
prices  and  labor  had  gone  up  nearly  twenty-five  percent,  and 
I  was  not  at  all  surprised  when  Mr.  Fordyce  told  me  the  lowest 
bid  he  could  make  on  the  pedestal  was  $2700.  We  went  all 
over  the  plans  carefully,  but  could  see  no  way  of  cutting  it 
down.  So  I  made  up  my  mind  that  if  we  died  we  would  die 
hard.  I  sent  Cisco  your  letter,  and  one  for  myself  asking 
for  an  appointment,  and  told  Fordyce,  if  he  could  n't  devise 
some  way  of  reducing  the  bid,  never  to  darken  the  door  of 
McK.  M.  &  W.'s  offices  again.  Next  morning  I  got  a  letter 
from  Cisco  saying  he  would  be  in  Saturday  the  "hull"  day 
long,  and  Fordyce  appeared  with  a  sort  of  a  yaller  green  blue 
stone  in  his  hand  which  he  said  was  the  "grandest"  (he  is  a 
Scotchman)  stone  on  the  market,  and  that  he  would  build 
the  pedestal  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  cheaper,  that 
is  for  two  thousand,  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  He 
swore  it  was  as  strong  as  the  blue  stone  and,  to  prove  it, 
picked  up  a  piece  of  the  blue  stone,  and  hit  the  two  together, 
and  smashed  his  own  stone  into  a  thousand  splinters.  Con- 
vincing, was  n't  it  ? 

Nevertheless  the  stone  turned  out  to  be  a  very  good  stone, 
and  a  very  stunning  color.  I  will  send  you  a  specimen 
of  it. 

Saturday  noon  I  sailed  down  to  Cisco's  office,  with  the  photo- 
graph in  one  hand  and  my  stone  in  the  other.  He  received  me 
very  kindly,  read  over  your  letter  again,  and  asked  me  what 
he  could  do  for  me.  I  told  him  how  long  we  had  worked  on 
the  pedestal,  and  how  anxious  we  were  to  have  it  built,  how  the 
bids  had  come  over  the  amount  in  hand,  and  how  we  hoped 
for  the  committee's  assistance.  He  said  "Ah !  Dear  me !"  two 
or  three  times,  thought  pedestal  number  one  would  be  very 
grand  and  liked  pedestal  number  two  almost  as  well,  liked  the 

234 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

stone,  too.  At  the  end  he  rose  from  his  seat  and  said  he  was 
very  sorry  that  General  Dix  was  not  alive,  that  he  would  have 
been  the  proper  person  to  apply  to,  that  as  for  himself  he 
really  could  do  nothing  about  it,  that  the  two  thousand  dol- 
lars would  always  be  at  my  disposal,  and  wished  me  "Good 
morning." 

"Then  you  do  not  think  any  more  money  could  be  raised?" 
I  said  as  I  shook  hands  with  him. 

"Possibly — possibly,"  he  replied,  "you  had  better  see  Gov- 
ernor Morgan,  as  he  is  Mr.  St.-Gaudens'  friend." 

After  seeing  Cisco,  I  had  spoken  to  my  father  and  asked 
his  advice.  Cisco,  by  the  way,  at  first  supposed  I  was  the  man 
who  was  going  to  contract  for  the  pedestal.  So  my  Dad  told 
me  he  would  give  me  a  formal  letter  of  introduction  to  him 
which  would  make  him  at  least  listen  courteously  to  what  I 
had  to  say  again.  What  he  did  write  was  a  letter  of  about 
a  dozen  lines,  expressing  our  cause  strongly  and  putting  the 
point  to  Cisco.  The  plan  I  had  formed  was  to  get  the  list  of 
subscribers,  and  then  make  attacks  on  all  of  them,  with  my 
Dad's  assistance,  until  I  came  across  some  feller  who  took 
enough  interest  in  the  thing  to  make  the  cause  his  own.  I 
sent  my  Dad's  letter  and  my  own  to  Cisco  in  the  same  en- 
velope, and  was  asked  to  call  on  him  next  day. 

He  was  as  kind  as  before,  told  me  he  had  computed  the  in- 
terest and  found  there  was  two  thousand  four  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars,  just  the  sum  we  want  to  build  the  plain  shell, 
above  the  nine  thousand  dollars.  He  said  it  would  be  next 
to  impossible  to  get  a  list  of  the  subscribers  and  that  it  would 
be  very  foolish  for  me  to  try  to  do  anything  about  raising 
any  more  money  now,  especially  as  the  statue  was  behindhand. 
But  that  when  the  statue  and  pedestal  were  put  up,  if  they 
were  a  success  he  thought  there  would  be  no  doubt  but  that 
the  extra  six  hundred  dollars  or  so  could  be  raised  amongst  a 
dozen  or  so  of  the  subscribers.  For  instance,  he  would  give 
fifty  dollars,  perhaps  Governor  Morgan  one  hundred,  and  so 

235 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

on.     He  then  bade  me  good  morning,  and  told  me  to  see 
Governor  Morgan  and  get  his  advice. 

So  I  marched  off  with  joy  in  my  soul  and  had  hard  work 
to  stop  myself  writing  you  a  high-cockalorum  of  a  letter  at 
once.  I  did  not  write  you  before  for  the  reason  that  so  far 
nothing  was  settled,  and  I  saw  no  reason  for  disheartening 
you,  when  possibly  matters  might  turn  out  for  the  best,  and 
after  seeing  Cisco  I  thought  it  safest  to  see  Morgan,  rather 
than  write  you  a  paean  of  victory  and  have  to  take  it  all  back 
by  next  post.  Alas,  I  did  only  too  wisely.  ...  I  saw 
Morgan  three  times  after  this,  but  on  each  occasion  he  was  in  a 
bad  humor  and  I  did  not  venture  upon  the  pedestal.  Last 
week  I  called  to  see  i^im,  called  again  about  his  old  mausoleum, 
and  took  the  photographs  of  the  pedestal  with  me  in  case  the 
opportunity  was  favorable.  The  Governor  did  not  want  to 
see  me  about  his  monument,  although  he  had  told  me  to  call, 
but  asked  "what  I  had  in  my  hands."  I  thought  I  had  bet- 
ter settle  matters  at  once,  and  I  showed  him  the  pedestal  and 
told  him  as  quietly  and  shortly  as  I  could  how  we  stood,  and 
what  Cisco  had  said. 

He  immediately  got  up  on  a  high  horse,  and  acted  in  a  most 
outrageous  manner,  misunderstanding  everything  I  said. 
.  .  .  In  fact,  his  whole  manner  of  acting  was  as  if  we  were 
trying  to  come  some  game  over  the  committee,  and  that  he 
brushed  us  away,  as  beneath  listening  to.  I  was  boiling  mad, 
and  at  first  a  little  troubled  what  to  do,  and  wisely  slept  over 
it.  The  next  morning  I  wrote  Governor  Morgan  a  letter  and 
went  immediately  down  to  see  Cisco,  told  him  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  showed  him  the  letter  I  had  sent  the  Governor.  He 
metaphorically  patted  me  on  the  back,  told  me  not  to  mind 
the  Governor,  that,  this  is  entre  nous,  his  physicians  had  told 
him  that  he  could  not  live  more  than  two  or  three  years  and 
that  in  consequence  he  was  in  a  constantly  depressed  and  mor- 
bid condition. 

236 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

So  I  went  away  again  highly  elated,  as  I  was  afraid  Cisco 
would  say,  "Well,  you  had  better  drop  the  whole  matter  and 
do  what  the  contract  calls  for."  He  at  least  is  our  friend 
and  I  am  sure  will  gather  others  to  us.  This  was  four  days 
ago. 

Now  you  know  all  about  it,  what  has  happened  and  exactly 
how  the  matter  stands.  You  must  draw  your  own  inferences, 
and  tell  me  what  to  do.  There  will  be,  above  the  contract  for 
the  pedestal,  about  six  hundred  dollars  to  seven  hundred  dol- 
lars extra  for  the  cutting  of  the  reliefs.  Toward  this,  at  a 
pinch,  the  difference  in  the  cost  of  casting  a  figure  eight  feet 
three  instead  of  nine  feet  might  legitimately  go,  and  I  feel 
almost  sure  that  the  balance  can  be  raised  amongst  the  sub- 
scribers, when  the  time  comes.  But  of  course  it  is  a  risky 
thing  and  one  that  you  must  decide  for  yourself. 

I  have  told  you  everything,  and  at  frightful  length,  and 
now  the  pack  is  on  your  shoulders,  and  you  can  throw  it  off 
which  way  you  choose.  You  're  boss,  and  I  await  your  orders. 
If  you  so  decide,  we  have  plenty  of  time  to  design  a  new 
"chaste  and  inexpensive"  pedestal.  If,  however,  you  decide, 
as  I  think  you  will,  to  go  on  with  our  last  design,  write  me  so 
at  once.  I  found  out  from  the  contractors  that  they  could 
cut  the  stone  in  the  winter,  and  put  up  the  pedestal,  founda- 
tion and  all,  within  three  weeks  in  the  spring.  So  we  are  not 
more  than  moderately  pressed  in  that  regard.  But  it  is  im- 
portant that  you  should  start  immediately  on  your  work  mod- 
eling the  reliefs,  etc.  Therefore,  if  you  choose,  you  can  tele- 
graph simply  "Stanford,  New  York."  I  will  leave  word  to 
have  any  telegram  so  addressed  sent  to  the  office,  and  I  will 
understand  that  you  mean  to  go  ahead  and  I  will  contract 
for  the  pedestal  at  once. 

Assez!  Assez!  c'est  fini.  Look  up!  Hire  a  Hall!  I  have 
spent  two  evenings  writing  this  and  hope  it  will  go  by  this 
week's  White  Star  steamer. 

237 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

For  you  that  have  read  it  and  the  wealth  of  correspondence 
accompanying  it,  all  I  can  say  is  "God  pity  you,"  and  be  with 
you,  old  boy,  forever. 

S.  W. 

Here  is  a  portion  of  my  father's  reply  to  White's  letters  of 
October  seventeenth  and  October  eighteenth: 

Paris,  Nov.  6th,  '79. 
Dear  old  Hoss: 

Go  ahead  with  the  pedestal  and  do  whatever  you 
please  about  lowering  or  heightening  the  wall.  I  'm 
willing  and  give  you  carte  blanche  with  all  my  heart. 
As  soon  as  I  receive  the  dimensions  from  you  I  will 
commence  on  the  bas-reliefs.  ...  I  can  reduce 
the  plinth,  though,  to  any  size  you  see  fit.  The  statue 
is  more  than  half  finished  in  the  big,  and  of  course  can- 
not be  changed.  So  go  ahead,  sign  the  contract,  cut 
off  all  you  please,  put  on  all  you  please.  I  will  pay 
for  the  cutting  the  figures  and  take  my  chances  for 
the  reimbursement  by  the  committee.  Furthermore,  I 
will  also  agree  to  pay  whatever  more  than  the  sum  the 
committee  have  for  the  pedestal  the  cutting  of  the  dol- 
phins and  lettering  may  come  to.  That  matter  is  now 
settled. 

As  to  the  site,  I  have  a  great  deal  more  difficulty  in 
deciding,  but  now  formally  select  the  Madison  Square 
site.  For  a  great  many  reasons  I  prefer  the  Union 
Square  site  above  the  fountain,  but  stick  to  the  Madison 
Square,  unless  you  should  change  your  mind  and  vote 
for  the  Union  Square  one  too.     The  principal  objec- 

238 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

tion  to  Madison  Square  is  the  reflection  from  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel.  And  now,  while  I  think  of  it,  the 
statue  must  be  unveiled  in  the  afternoon  for  that  rea- 
son.   So  go  for  Madison  Square. 

If  I  get  my  models  for  the  "Loyalty"  and  "Courage" 
done  in  time,  and  I  think  I  can,  I  shall  have  them  at 
least  commenced  in  the  shop.  The  dolphins  and  let- 
tering will  be  entirely  cut  and  finished  in  the  shop. 
Send  me  the  definite  space  for  the  "Loyalty"  and 
"Courage"  and  I  '11  commence  at  once.  So  much  for  that. 

The  last  bid  you  had  for  a  blue  stone  pedestal  of 
course  "squashes"  the  Scotchy  with  the  yellow  blue 
stone  that  was  going  to  knock  spots  out  of  the  blue 
stone.  So  I  take  it  at  any  rate.  I  think  I  have  a  list 
of  the  subscribers  that  have  not  paid  for  the  Farragut, 
and  I  know  that  there  is  nine  hundred  dollars'  worth 
of  them.  I  may  conclude  to  write  to  Montgomery,  the 
Consul  General  to  Switzerland,  who  is  the  secretary 
and  did  have  that  list.  But  you  know  we  had  a  kind 
of  a  diplomatic  row,  and  I  don't  relish  writing  to  him, 
and  I  don't  count  on  all  this. 

If  convenient,  but  only  if  it 's  convenient,  I  would  n't 
settle  on  the  cutting  of  the  letters  as  Louis  might  do 
some  of  that.  But,  if  it  interferes  with  the  arrange- 
ments in  any  way  whatever,  don't  mind.  Of  course  I 
wish  to  design  the  letters  also  if  possible.  Don't  set- 
tle about  cutting  the  figures.  I  might  be  able  to  get 
them  cheaper,  but  as  I  said  before  that  must  not  stand 
in  the  way  of  the  work.     However,  don't  wait  to  write 

239 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

to  me  about  it  if  it  should,  but  go  ahead  and  contract 
for  them.     I  '11  be  satisfied.     .     .     . 

Two  months  later  White  wrote  to  my  father: 

Friday  night,  Dec.  17,  1899. 
Dear  old  Fellow: 

.  .  .  The  truth  is  I  had  things  pretty  well  along  when 
one  Sunday  Babb  came  in,  and  said,  in  his  usual  way  of  spring- 
ing a  bomb-shell  on  you,  "Well,  if  you  take  the  rise  out  of 
the  back  of  the  seat  you  '11  get  the  pedestal  too  heavy  and  make 
the  figure  look  thin."  Then  as  usual,  he  shut  up  like  a  clam 
and  would  n't  say  any  more.  Now,  as  I  care  much  for  Babb's 
opinion,  and  my  conscience  would  never  forgive  me  if  I  got 
the  pedestal  too  heavy,  I  began  floundering  around  trying  to 
improve  matters  until  McKim  came  along  and  said,  "You  've 
got  a  good  thing,  why  don't  you  stick  to  it  ?"  So  I  've  stuck  to 
it.     .     .     . 

The  plan  of  the  pedestal  has  a  flatter  curve  and  the  whole 
pedestal  is  broader  and  lower.  Babb  approves,  everybody  ap- 
proves, and  I  am  consequently  happy.  After  a  heavy  con- 
sultation, I  have  kept  the  rise  in  the  back  of  the  seat  in  a 
modified  and  more  subtle  form  so  you  'd  be  satisfied. 

All  I  have  got  to  say  is  if  any  Greek  Temple  had  any  more 
parabolic,  bucolic,  or  any  other  olic  kind  of  curves  about  it 
than  this  has,  or  if  the  architect  had  to  draw  them  out  full 
size,  a  lunatic  asylum  or  a  hospital  must  have  been  added  to 
an  architect's  office.  I  hope  you  will  not  go  into  a  hospital 
trying  to  understand  them,  old  Boy. 

.  .  About  the  models — the  ones  we  want  first  of  course 
are  the  fish  and  the  sea  and  the  sword,  as  those  are  in  the  con- 
tract. Everybody  likes  the  fishes,  so  I  would  make  them  like 
the  little  model  "better  as  you  can."  As  to  the  sea,  do  just 
as  you  please,  and  it  will  be  sure  to  be  bully.  You  must  make 
it  stormy  though.     As  for  conventionalism,  fire  away  as  you 

240 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

choose;  our  difference  of  opinion  is  only  one  of  words.  By 
the  way,  did  you  ever  read  the  description  of  the  horse  in  the 
Book  of  Job? 

"Hast  thou  given  the  horse  strength?  Hast  thou  clothed 
his  neck  with  thunder?  Canst  thou  make  him  afraid  as  a 
grasshopper?  The  glory  of  his  nostrils  is  terrible.  He  paw- 
eth  in  the  valley,  and  rejoiceth  in  his  strength." 

Of  course  a  horse's  neck  is  not  clothed  with  thunder.  But 
would  a  realistic  description  have  gone  to  your  guts 
so?     .     .     . 

And  again  my  father  answered: 

Sunday  or  Monday,  March  14th  or  15th,  1880. 
Dear  Bianco: 

Just  received  your  long  telegram.  I  don't  fully  un- 
derstand about  the  sea,  but  that 's  of  little  importance. 
I  think  you  will  be  pleased  with  what  I  do. 

I  'm  working  on  the  plaster  of  the  "Farragut,"  and 
think  I  'm  improving  it  seriously.  I  should  n't  be  very 
sorry  if  Fisher  and  Bird  fell  through  with  the  marble 
.  .  .  as  I  have  so  much  more  advantageous  an  offer 
for  cutting  the  stone  from  fellows  that  are  here.  I 
don't  care  so  much  about  the  advantage  in  a  money  way 
as  in  an  artistic,  for  the  man  I  would  have  is  an  Amer- 
ican, one  of  Palmer's  best  men.  He  would  be  de- 
lighted, would  do  it  in  place,  I  could  boss  him  as  much 
as  I  please,  and  the  work  I  'm  sure  would  be  well  done 
and  rapidly.     Great  God,  what  a  stew  I  keep  you  in! 

.  .  .  "Have  you  done  rightly?"  My  dear  boy, 
you  ought  to  be  named  Saint-Job- White.     That  is  all 

241 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

I  can  say.  Nothing  more.  All  I  can  do  in  return  to 
counter-balance  faintly  for  the  bother  and  worry  I  'm 
putting  you  to  is  to  tell  you  I  think  your  fish,  sea,  seat, 
the  whole  thing,  will  look  better  than  you  ever  dreamed 
it  would.  I  'm  sure  of  that,  and  also  that,  although 
when  I  had  finished  Farragut  in  clay  I  was  disgusted, 
since  I  Ve  worked  the  plaster  I  think  better  of  it  and 
feel  you  will  like  it.  If  La  Farge,  Babb,  and  yourself 
don't  think  it  decadent  I  will  be  rewarded — I  am  all 
nervous  about  the  worry  you  must  have  been  in  with 
this  mess  and  at  times  I  wish,  for  your  sake,  I  had  never 
been  born. 


242 


IX 
PARISIAN  AMUSEMENTS 

1878-1880 

White's  Activities — White  and  the  Bust  at  Lille — Down  the  Rhone 
with  White  and  McKim — Friendships — The  Society  of  American 
Artists  in  Paris — The  Paris  International  Exposition — Life  at  the 
Time. 

AS  White  proved  of  unusual  aid  to  Saint-Gaudens  while 
the  architect  was  in  the  United  States  and  the  sculp- 
tor in  Paris,  so  he  developed  into  the  most  sympa- 
thetic of  companions  while  he  was  with  my  father  abroad. 
Saint-Gaudens  speaks  of  this;  yet,  further  to  show  how  at- 
tuned were  the  two  minds,  I  will  preface  the  reminiscences  of 
this  chapter  by  a  letter  to  my  father  from  White,  characteris- 
tic of  his  enthusiasm  over  the  wealth  of  art  about  him. 
White  writes: 

Dear  St.  Gaudens: 

.  .  .  Now,  old  boy,  having  been  "werry"  modest,  the 
real  reason  I  am  writing  you  is  to  tell  you  about  an  acquaint- 
ance of  yours.  Perhaps  you  have  seen  her  and  I  am  wasting 
my  time  and  making  a  fool  of  myself;  nevertheless,  here  goes. 
I  was  at  Lille  yesterday  and  went  to  the  Museum.  I  suppose 
it  is  the  best  provincial  collection  anywhere;  but  I  wandered 
past  pen  and  wash  drawings  by  Michelangelo  and  Raphael, 
by  Fra  Bartolommeo,  Tintoretto,  Francia,  Signorelli,  Peru- 
gino,  Masaccio,  Ghirlandajo,  pen  and  wash  drawings  by  Ve- 
rocchio  and  one  even  by  Donatello, — drawings  by  these  men, 
and  ink  and  wash  drawings  at  that, — I  wandered  past  them 
with  a  listless  sort  of  air.     I  was  on  a  hunt  for  something 

243 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

else,  even  a  wax  head  by  Raphael.  I  couldn't  find  it  and 
was  about  to  appeal  to  the  guardian,  when  suddenly,  etc.! 
"Holy  Moses!  Gin  and  seltzer!"  Everything,  anything, 
would  be  but  as  straws  in  the  whirlpool.  When  you  have  made 
up  your  mind  that  a  thing  should  look  one  way  and  it  looks 
another,  you  are  very  apt  to  be  disappointed.  For  a  moment 
I  gasped  for  breath.  The  next,  like  a  vessel  changing  tack, 
my  sails  shook  in  the  wind  and  I  said,  is  this  thing  right? 
And  then  the  utter  loveliness  of  it  swept  all  other  feelings 
aside.  Do  you  know  that  it  is  colored,  and  that  all  it  needs  is 
eyelashes  to  be  what  people  call  a  "wax  figure,"  that  the  skin 
is  flesh  color,  the  lips  red,  the  eyes  chestnut,  the  hair  auburn, 
the  dress  blue,  and  the  pedestal  gold?  It  is  easy  enough  to 
take  exception  to  all  this,  and  your  reason  will  immediately 
tell  you  it  is  wrong.  But  then,  when  you  go  and  look  at  it, 
you  wish  you  may  die  or  something.  You  no  more  question 
its  not  being  "high  art"  than  you  think  of  a  yellow  harvest 
moon  being  but  a  mass  of  extinct  volcanoes. 

It  is  no  use  going  on,  I  shall  have  to  wait  until  I  can  dance 
around  your  studio  to  express  my  enthusiasm.  Get  down  on 
your  knees  in  front  of  your  autotype  which  gives  but  a  half 
idea  of  it.  Never  was  so  sweet  a  face  made  by  man  in  this 
world  and,  I  am  sure,  if  they  are  all  as  lovely  in  the  next,  it 
must  be  Heaven  indeed.     .     .     . 

It  is  of  the  White  of  this  letter  that  the  reminiscences  speak. 
My  father  writes: 

In  the  years  I  passed  this  time  in  Paris  there  was 
little  of  the  adventurous  swing  of  life  that  pervaded  my 
previous  struggles.  The  dominant  difference,  and  one 
that  was  certainly  interesting,  came  upon  the  arrival  of 
Mr.  Stanford  White,  who  lived  with  us,  together  with 
my  brother  Louis.     Our  home  was  White's  headquar- 

244 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

ters,  whence  he  darted  off  in  extraordinarily  vigorous 
excursions  to  the  towns  surrounding  Paris  that  con- 
tain those  marvels  of  Gothic  architecture  of  which  he 
was  an  adorer. 

His  endless  excursions  kept  up  for  about  six  months, 
I  believe,  until  he  was  joined  by  his  great  friend 
McKim.  Then  the  three  of  us,  all  red-heads,  took  a 
trip  down  the  Rhone,  the  idea  coming  from  my  experi- 
ence years  before  in  the  French  war,  when,  for  econ- 
omy's sake,  I  had  proposed  going  to  Marseilles  in  that 
way.  The  towns  along  the  river's  bank  were  then  full 
of  Gothic  and  particularly  Roman  architecture,  and  it 
was  with  high  anticipations  that  we  boarded  the  long, 
narrow  boat  one  day  at  Lyons,  to  journey  in  it  to 
Avignon. 

This  was  a  great  and  diversified  trip,  diversified 
both  by  the  beauty  and  austere  character  of  the  coun- 
try we  went  through  and  by  comic  experiences.  The 
steamer,  of  the  same  proportions  as  our  canal-boats, 
sailed  down  the  rapid  current  of  the  yellow  Rhone  at 
an  extraordinary  rate  of  speed.  We  passed  under 
stone  bridges  and  by  towns  with  churches  with  stone 
spires,  beneath  a  Southern  sun  tempered  by  the  breeze 
of  the  swiftly  moving  boat.  The  breeze  was  not 
enough,  however,  to  temper  the  smell  of  garlic  which 
pervaded  our  ship  from  the  tip  of  her  bow  to  the  end 
of  her  stern.  She  was  thoroughly  impregnated,  in- 
side and  outside,  upside  and  down,  and  in  every  direc- 
tion, with  that  perfume.  We  were  in  the  land  of  gar- 
lic, and  there  was  no  doubt  about  it. 

245 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

The  boat  made  but  few  stops,  one  of  which  was  at 
Saint  Peray  where  we  got  off  and  bought  a  bottle  of 
delicious,  sparkling  white  wine  that  made  our  souls 
happy  for  an  hour  or  so  afterwards! 

Later,  as  we  rushed  down  the  river,  we  saw  on  a  lit- 
tle trestle,  immediately  before  some  meadows  below  a 
large  stone  bridge,  a  woman  with  a  band-box  await- 
ing our  approach.  The  trestle  was  so  close  to  the 
bridge,  and  so  placed  as  regarded  the  angle  of  the  arch 
near  it,  that  it  was  impossible  for  the  boat  to  approach 
it  head  on  through  the  arch  without  destroying  the 
trestle  and  the  lady  and  the  bandbox  at  the  same  time. 
So  we  took  the  arch  near  the  center  of  the  river,  tore 
past  our  feminine  friend  some  distance  down  stream, 
and  then  backed  up,  finally  touching  the  boat  to  the 
trestle.  This  was  accompanied  by  infinite  comment, 
general  jargon,  and  volumes  of  the  smell  of  garlic,  un- 
til the  woman  and  her  bandbox  were  safely  shipped. 

The  getting  the  boat  to  the  good  woman  was  all  very 
well.  But  getting  the  boat  away  from  the  pier  with- 
out running  into  the  headland,  which  was  farther  down, 
was  another  pair  of  cuffs,  as  they  say  in  French.  For 
it  necessitated  backing  up  the  river  through  the  arch 
we  avoided  first,  and  then  steaming  down  again  through 
the  second  arch  we  had  taken  originally,  and  resulted 
in  the  boat's  running  up  on  the  bank  supporting  the 
pier.  In  a  moment  there  was  the  greatest  danger  of 
our  capsizing.  The  uproar  was  extraordinary.  All 
the  crew  came  out  from  various  doors  and  orifices  and 
all   shouted,   from  the   captain   to   the   cook.     Some 

246 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

jumped  off  and  pushed  with  poles.  Those  who  were 
not  pushing  swore  at  those  who  were,  and  the  men  with 
poles  swore  back  at  the  men  who  were  not  pushing. 
To  the  confusion  of  this  din  was  added  the  loud  noise 
of  the  river  rushing  under  the  arch.  In  the  midst  of 
it  all,  a  young  fiend,  evidently  accustomed  to  this  thing, 
or  delighting  in  danger,  half  reclined  in  a  corner  of 
the  boat  made  comfortable  by  the  tilt,  and  elevated 
some  kind  of  a  tin  horn  or  cornet,  upon  which  he  gave 
a  diabolical  intermezzo,  with  the  greatest  glee,  during 
the  entire  porformance. 

Night  had  fallen  when  we  arrived  at  Avignon,  and 
there,  as  we  wandered  through  the  city,  I  felt  again  the 
delightful  sense  of  the  South  and  of  the  narrow  thor- 
oughfares of  Italian  towns.  It  was  certainly  pleasant 
to  hear  the  sound  of  a  Beethoven  sonata  floating  from 
an  open  window  into  the  warm  summer  night  of  the 
silent  streets. 

In  a  short  time  our  passion  for  ice-cream  asserted 
itself,  though  there  seemed  to  be  no  public  place  or  cafe 
where  we  could  find  our  beloved  refreshment.  Soon, 
however,  inquiry  from  a  solitary  passer-by  led  to  a  re- 
ply that  vividly  recalled  my  father  and  the  ardent 
South. 

"Is  there  a  cafe  in  this  town  where  we  can  get  some 
ices?" 

"Most  certainly." 

"Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  us  where 
it  is?" 

"Why,  yes,  yes.     Go  down  this  street  until  you  come 

247 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

to  the  third  street  on  your  left,  follow  that  two  blocks, 
then  take  the  first  on  your  right,  then  keep  straight 
ahead,  and  you  will  come  out  on  the  public  square. 
There  is  the  cafe,  which  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in 
finding,  for,"  with  a  large,  sweeping  gesture,  "it  oc- 
cupies the  entire  place." 

With  visions  of  the  enormous  cafes  of  Marseilles  and 
the  Paris  Boulevards,  we  followed  his  instructions. 
But  where  we  had  been  given  an  impression  of  a  square 
second  only  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  of  Paris,  we 
found  a  little  widening  in  the  street,  and  in  one  corner 
of  it  a  diminutive  cafe,  dismal  beyond  description,  and 
lighted  by  what  was  dim  enough  to  be  a  feeble  candle- 
light, even  if  it  was  not  that.  Our  informer  had  stated 
truly,  however;  it  occupied  "the  entire  place." 

From  Avignon  we  made  a  delightful  tour  going  to 
Aries,  St.  Gilles,  Nimes,  and  swinging  back  northward 
through  Le  Puy  and  Clermont;  and  especially  was  it 
interesting,  as  traveling  third-class  we  could  learn  much 
of  the  people  as  well  as  of  the  architecture  before  we 
returned  to  Paris. 

At  this  time  I  met  Samuel  Clemens.  He  was  then 
a  good  deal  of  a  dyspeptic,  though  he  is  evidently  well 
out  of  that,  judging  by  his  recent  speech  as  well  as  his 
looks  and  actions.  He  is  as  sound  again  as  the  tradi- 
tional cricket  I  spoke  of  in  relation  to  my  friend  Bunce. 

He  and  I  were  the  witnesses  at  M 's  marriage  at 

Montmartre,  where  M had  his  studio.  All  mar- 
riages in  France,  whether  religious  or  not,  must  be  per- 
formed by  the  civil  authorities.     This  was  the  only  one 

248 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

at  which  I  ever  assisted,  and  a  singular  impression  it 
produced  on  me. 

At  the  appointed  day  we  went  to  the  municipal  build- 
ing of  that  part  of  the  city,  called  the  Mairie,  and  were 
ushered  into  a  large  hall.  Around  the  walls  was  a 
simple  wooden  bench,  and  on  that  bench,  at  occasional 
intervals,  there  were  other  marriage  parties  in  groups  of 
half  a  dozen  or  so,  all  in  their  marriage  costumes,  as  from 
this  affair  they  generally  went  to  the  religious  ceremony. 
Extending  entirely  across  the  other  end  of  the  room  was 
a  high  desk,  back  of  which  there  were  some  high  seats. 
In  the  wall  behind,  and  facing  the  room,  were  two  doors, 
one  on  the  right  and  one  on  the  left.  Presently  there 
was  a  commotion  and  one  of  the  ubiquitous  gendarmes 
called  out,  "Monsieur  the  Mayor."  The  door  on  the 
left  opened  suddenly  and  in  burst  his  Altissimo  Excel- 
lency, the  Grand  Panjandrum,  the  Mayor  himself,  while 
every  one  arose  as  if  in  the  presence  of  a  divinity.  He 
was  short,  had  a  large  stomach,  and  across  his  bosom  he 
wore  a  wide  tricolored  band  showing  his  official  dignity. 
I  am  probably  giving  an  unpleasant  impression  of  a  very 
worthy  gentleman,  but  such  it  was.  He  was  followed 
by  a  horde  of  aides,  who  trooped  in  after  him  in  a  very 
businesslike  manner  and  distributed  themselves  in  the 
seats  on  each  side. 

Presently  a  voice  would  shout,  "Mr.  So  and  So,  Miss 
So  and  So,"  and  one  of  the  groups  who  had  reseated 
themselves  would  rise  and  walk  in  a  body  over  to  the 
long  desk.  Then  there  would  come  a  mumbling  for  a 
few  moments,  after  which  they  would  turn  about  and 

249 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

leave  the  hall.     This  operation  was  repeated  several 

times  until  Mr.  M 's  name  was  called,  when  we 

marched  up,  as  did  the  others.  His  Excellency,  after 
some  preliminary  performance  by  an  underling,  ad- 
dressed Mr.   M in  a  hurried  and  "Let-us-get- 

through-with-this-thing-quick"  tone.  "Do  you  take 
Miss  X to  be  your  wedded  wife." 

Then  instantly  turning  to  the  young  lady  he  asked 

if  she  would  take  Mr.  M to  be  her  husband.     On 

her  reply  in  the  affirmative,  he  declared  them  wedded, 
and  turned  his  head  about  with  a  bored  look  very  much 
as  if  he  was  about  to  say,  "Next!"  Some  more  unim- 
portant ceremony  followed,  and  then  we  went  out  after 
the  wedded  couples  into  the  open  air.  Considering  the 
gravity  of  the  occasion,  this  whole  performance  seemed 
to  me  shameful  in  the  entire  absence  of  dignity  or  re- 
spect for  the  participants. 

By  now  I  was  also  well  acquainted  with  Will  H. 
Low,  Carroll  Beckwith,  Kenyon  Cox,  Edwin  H.  Blash- 
field,  and  John  S.  Sargent,  the  latter  a  tall,  rather  slim, 
handsome  fellow.  He  was  already  in  the  public  eye 
through  his  portrait  of  his  master  Carolus  Duran,  and 
consequently  his  appearance  at  first  sight  remains  in 
my  mind  distinctly.  Shortly  after  that,  in  exchange 
for  a  copy  of  the  medallion  I  had  done  of  Bastien- 
Lepage,  he  gave  me  a  delightful  water-color  of  a  fe- 
male figure,  made  at  Capri.  This  went  up  in  the 
flames  of  my  studio.  Together  with  these  friends  I 
engaged  in  the  enthusiastic  meetings  incited  by  the  bold 
and  admirably  written  articles  of  Clarence  Cook,  at- 

250 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

tacking  the  conservatism  of  the  Academy  of  Design,- — ■ 
articles  which  made  a  great  commotion  in  the  art  circles 
of  New  York  at  that  period.  We  voted  endless  resolu- 
tions and  endorsements  of  what  he  said,  after  the  usual 
discussions  and  schisms  that  occur  when  a  lot  of  young 
men  try  to  do  something.     But  nothing  came  of  it. 

Upon  the  departure  of  the  St.  Thomas  work  for  the 
United  States,  which  occurred  in  the  midst  of  the 
period,  we  packed  up  our  belongings  and  started  for 
our  beloved  Rome.  There  I  hired  a  studio  on  the  Pi- 
azza Barberini  and  immediately  began  my  sketches  for 
the  statue  of  Farragut.  I  had  hardly  been  installed, 
however,  before  I  received  word  from  Mr.  D.  Maitland 
Armstrong,  asking  if  I  would  be  one  of  three  to  com- 
prise the  jury  for  the  American  Art  Exhibit  in  the  In- 
ternational Exposition  at  Paris  which  was  about  to 
take  place.  This  was  an  honor  which  I  immediately 
accepted,  so  back  we  went  to  Paris.  We  did  some 
bold  things  on  the  jury,  Mr.  Armstrong,  Mr.  Detmold, 
and  I,  and  if  my  memory  serves  me  rightly,  probably 
some  unjust  ones  in  the  rashness  and  enthusiasm  of 
youth,  and,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  in  my  role  of 
"righter  of  wrongs,"  as  my  friend  Bion  once  dubbed 
me.  I  certainly  now  hold  in  great  esteem  the  works 
of  men  whom  I  can  recall  at  that  time  as  estimating  be- 
low the  line  of  my  high-reaching  vision.  These  were 
the  members  of  what  is  known  as  the  Hudson  River 
School.  I  can  recall  no  specific  injustice,  but  we  would 
have  been  divine  if  we  had  not  fallen  into  some. 
Nevertheless,  Mr.  Armstrong  managed  it  with  great 

251 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

tact,  and  the  result  was  very  much  to  the  credit  of 
America. 

The  temper  of  this  outstriking  group  of  young  American 
artists  in  Paris  was  but  little  different  from  that  of  those  at 
home.  The  sculptors,  so  unfortunately  few,  were  of  the  type 
that  sympathized  heart  and  soul  with  my  father's  admira- 
tion of  such  modern  work  as  Rodin's  "St.  John  Calling  in  the 
Wilderness."  The  painters  were  breaking  even  French  cir- 
cumscribed conditions  right  and  left.  For  the  elder  men  of 
that  nation  were  still  dissecting  combinations  of  reflected  lights, 
laboriously  working  over  detailed  shadows  in  thick  impasto, 
while  this  younger  group  were  seeking  rather  force  of  char- 
acter, vital  directness  of  style,  fluent  line  and  brilliant  color, 
and  were  followers  of  such  as  Carolas  Duran,  who  could  teach 
them  what  they  desired  to  learn  concerning  the  underlying  re- 
lations of  color  and  mass. 

As  Saint-Gaudens  has  explained,  the  one  common  stamp- 
ing-ground of  this  group  abroad,  as  well  as  at  home,  was  the 
new  association.  However,  my  father  is  over-modest  when 
he  says,  in  speaking  of  their  discussions  concerning  it,  that 
"nothing  came  of  it."  Much  did  come  of  those  meetings,  in 
which  he  took  so  active  a  part,  both  in  a  general  and  a  par- 
ticular fashion.  Consequently,  to  show  how  vitally  they  con- 
tributed to  the  firm  establishment  of  the  Society  of  Ameri- 
can Artists,  I  quote  from  an  article  which  appeared  October 
30,  1878,  in  the  New  York  Tribune: 

"The  movement  among  the  younger  and  more  progressive 
American  artists  here  and  abroad,  of  which  mention  was  made 
last  week,  has  come  to  maturity  by  the  incorporation  of  a 
new  association.  The  most  salient  feature  in  the  new  scheme 
is  the  control  over  admissions  of  their  own  pictures  to  the 
exhibitions  which  are  accorded  to  artists  abroad.  The  Ameri- 
can Art  Association  proposes  to  open  an  exhibition  which  in  no 
wise  shall  be  in  opposition  or  rivalry  with  the  annual  exhibition 

252 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

of  the  Academy  of  Design.  Academicians  and  associate  aca- 
demicians are  among  the  founders  of  the  new  art  show.  The 
liberalism  of  the  American  Art  Association  is  attested  at  the 
start  by  the  fact  that  it  opens  its  doors  to  members  of  the  very 
Academy  against  which  the  movement  itself  was  a  dignified  pro- 
test. But  it  goes  farther.  The  distance  between  Paris  and 
New  York  is  too  great,  and  Americans  abroad  have  had  too  dis- 
agreeable an  experience  in  sending  pictures  across  the  At- 
lantic only  to  be  refused  admission  to  exhibitions.  Artists 
abroad  have  therefore  lost  confidence  in  home  justice.  To 
remedy  this,  the  American  Art  Association  has  resolved  to  ac- 
cept all  pictures  which  have  been  passed  by  a  committee  of 
five  in  Paris,  three  of  whom  are  to  be  elected  by  those  who  send 
in  contributions  and  two  appointed  by  the  association.  The 
officers  for  this  year  are  Walter  Shirlaw,  President;  Augustus 
St.-Gaudens,  Vice-President;  Wyatt  Eaton,  Secretary;  and 
Louis  C.  Tiffany,  Treasurer." 

In  a  personal  way  also  my  father  gained  much  from  the 
gatherings  of  the  insurgent  young  American  painters  and 
sculptors  in  Paris.  For  it  was  his  vitality  in  these  efforts  that 
to  a  large  extent  brought  him  his  appointment  on  the  Ameri- 
can Art  Jury  for  the  Paris  International  Exposition,  a  posi- 
tion of  great  value  to  so  young  a  man.  Here  is  a  letter  to 
my  father,  from  Mr.  D.  Maitland  Armstrong,  which  shows  the 
spirit  in  which  the  whole  affair  was  approached.  Evidently 
the  Committee  of  five  of  the  Tribune  letter  was  later  changed 
to  a  Committee  of  three  as  mentioned  by  Armstrong  and  Saint- 
Gaudens. 

New  York,  20  March,  1878. 
Dear  St.  Gaudens: 

I  was  very  much  relieved  to  hear  from  Commissioner-General 
McCormick  that  you  had  accepted  the  appointment  on  the 
committee  of  selection  in  Paris,  and  I  write  more  particularly 
now  to  let  you  know  what  you  will  have  to  do,  or  rather  what 
I  hope  you  will  avoid  doing.     You  know  that  you  and  I  and 

253 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

another  are  to  select  the  remaining  pictures  for  the  Exposition 
— i.e.  when  they  are  collected  in  Paris  we  three  are  to  form  a 
jury  and  decide  what  pictures  are  to  go  in,  the  decision  to  be 
by  ballot,  and  a  majority  of  votes  to  decide.  So  that  you  can 
select  as  many  as  you  like,  to  be  submitted,  but  you  cannot 
promise  space  to  any  one.  The  space  is  limited,  and  I  do  not 
think  that  more  than  forty  pictures,  at  the  outside,  can  be  ad- 
mitted in  Paris.  Eighty-four  were  sent  from  New  York.  I 
shall  have  absolute  control  of  the  hanging. 

I  am  extremely  glad  that  you  have  accepted,  and  it  is  a 
great  relief  to  me  to  have  you.  As  they  heard  nothing  from 
or  of  you,  I  had  to  fight  hard  to  keep  you  on  the  committee. 
If  you  have  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  very  little  thanks, 
you  will  be  indebted  for  it  all  to  me,  as  I  suggested  you  first 
as  one  of  the  Committee  in  Paris. 

B offered  a  picture  here  which  was  declined.     He  has 

sent  it  to  Paris  and  will  try  to  get  it  in  there.  The  Com- 
mittee here,  to  head  him  off,  passed  a  resolution  that  no  pic- 
ture offered  here  should  be  considered  by  the  Committee  in 
Paris.     Look  out  for  him.     He  shall  not  get  it  in,  but  do  not 

let  it  be  known,  as  we  do  not  wish  to  make  a  martyr  of  B . 

There  is  another  horrible  painter  who  offered  a  ghastly  daub 
which  was  rejected  here.  He  says  that  he  will  get  it  in  in  Paris 
through  you,  as  he  says  that  you  are  his  friend,  his  name  is 

G .     Look  out  for  him.     Do  not  make  any  promises  to 

artists.  You  have  no  right  to  do  so  and  it  might  give  you 
trouble.  Pardon  me  for  speaking  so  plainly.  I  do  it  from 
friendship. 

Try  and  find  all  the  pictures  you  can,  to  make  up  for  some 
of  the  bad  ones  from  here.  With  kindest  regards  from  Mrs. 
A.     I  remain 

Your  sincere  friend, 

D.  M.   Armstrong. 

I  turn  now  from  my  father's  public  to  his  private  life  out- 
side the  studio,  quoting  two  letters  written  by  him,  and  an  ac- 

254 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

count  sent  by  my  Aunt,  Mrs.  Emerson.     The  first  letter  is  to 
Stanford  White. 


Piazza  Barberini,  March,  1878. 
My  dear  White: 

"I  am  more  sorry  than  I  can  express,  &c  &c.  The 
fact  is  that  I  believe  all  of  us  architects,  musicians, 
painters,  sculptors,  even  the  meanest  of  us  have  a  bit 
of  La  Farge  in  them,  viz.,  the  wildest  order  in  letter 
writing.  Of  course  I  ought  to  be  punched,  knocked 
against  a  wall,  thrown  off  the  New  York  Post  Office 
flagtsaff ,  or  what 's  worse, .  made  to  remain  in  one  of 
the  offices  there  trying  to  sustain  one  of  Miller's  parti- 
tions. I  know  it.  I  know  it  all,  I  say,  and  you 
need  n't  be  so  savage  about  it ! ! ! 

You  would  have  received  this  love-song  ten  days 
sooner  if  my  friend  Mr.  Fever  had  not  come  and  paid 
me  a  two  weeks'  visit.  He  was  very  attentive,  and  al- 
though I  was  not  fond  of  him  and  made  faces  at  him 
and  gave  him  foul  things  to  swallow,  still  he  stuck.  I 
tried  to  get  rid  of  him  by  going  up  to  the  mountains; 
still  he  followed.  I  guess  he  is  tired  now,  for  he  only 
comes  in  for  a  short  spell  every  night.  He  's  as  much  of 
a  "bore"  as  I  am  in  giving  you  so  much  of  his  news. 
But  all  this  will  explain  why  I  am  going  to  pass  six 
months  in  Paris.  If  your  love  is  deep  and  pure  ad- 
dress your  letters  in  the  future,  care  of  Monroe  et  Co.,  7 
Rue  Scribe,  Paris.     .     .     . 

What  a  gorgeous  place  Italy  is  and  how  I  hate  to 
leave  it.     But   I  must  go,  as  I  dare  not  stay  here 

255 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

through  the  summer  on  account  of  the  fever.  It  gives 
me  a  curious  mixture  of  a  wish  to  do  something  good 
and  of  the  hopelessness  of  it,  to  see  all  these  glories  of 
the  "Renaissance."  What  artists  they  were!  They 
were  n't  anything  else. 

I  Ve  been  pegging  away  at  my  "Farragut,"  but  it 's  a 
hard  "tug,"  with  our  infernal  modern  dress.  I  have 
only  the  cap,  sword,  belt,  and  buttons,  and  the  resource 
of  trying  to  strike  away  from  the  stuff  we  have  in 
America.  When  you  come  over  I  want  to  talk  with 
you  about  the  pedestal.  Perhaps  something  might  be 
done  with  that.     .     .     . 

.  .  .  I  have  sent  Richardson  a  photograph  of  a 
sketch  for  the  Dexter.  The  photograph  does  n't  do 
the  sketch  justice.  I  think  I  could  do  something  good 
out  of  it  though.  I  certainly  prefer  such  work  to  the 
big  things  I  am  doing.  I  will  send  him  a  photograph 
of  another  disposition  for  the  same.  I  think  I  can  make 
something  good  with  the  letters  in  iron  and  some  gilt 
on  it.     .     . 

Have  you  seen  the  little  bronze  medallion  of  Arm- 
strong I  sent  to  the  new  Exhibition  in  New  York? 
I  'm  rather  pleased  with  the  color  of  the  bronze.  I 
wonder  also  did  my  Farragut  get  there  in  good  condi- 
tion, particularly  the  base.  As  to  my  angels,  I  pre- 
ferred the  one  immediately  under  the  cross  on  the  left 
hand  side. 

Yes,  the  St.  Thomas  engraving  in  Scribner's  was 
stunning,  and  on  the  whole  I  fear  the  work  has  been 
made  a  great  deal  too  much  of.     Oh,  how  I  would  like 

256 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

to  do  it  over  again.,  and  have  time,  after  what  I  have 
seen  in  Italy. 

Cook  has  been  very  kind  to  me  in  his  article.  I 
think  though  that  he  has  evidently  been  misled  in  re- 
gard to  Cottier's  part  of  the  work.  I  don't  think,  or 
at  least  I  don't  see,  what  La  Farge  would  have  done 
without  him  in  the  mixing  of  colors,  direction  of  men, 
&c.  &c,  and  all  the  practical  part.  But  on  the  other 
hand  as  regards  art,  I  know  there  is  n't  a  bit  of  Cot- 
tier in  the  whole  church.  La  Farge  had  every  bit  of 
Cottier's  work  changed  to  suit  himself,  and  to  La 
Farge,  and  La  Farge  only,  the  credit  or  blame  of  the 
artistic  side  of  the  work  in  that  church  is  to  go.  So  I 
feel  about  it,  and  for  that  reason  think  Cook  has  been 
misled.  I  believe  Cook  is  doing  a  good  work  though. 
He  is  n't  afraid  to  say  what  he  thinks.  He  is  thor- 
oughly sincere,  and  he  is  far  superior  to  all  the  others 
we  have  had  to  write  on  Art  in  "Ameriky." 

You  don't  know  how  I  hate  the  idea  of  going  back  to 
dark,  sloppy  Paris  after  this  glorious  place;  such  sun 
and  light  as  there  is  here.  I  'm  fairly  in  love  with  it. 
The  Sistine  Chapel  and  the  "Santa  Maria  del  Popolo" 
help  in  my  enjoyment  of  it.     .     .     . 

The  second  letter  is  to  Mr.  Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

December  29,  '79. 
M y  dear  Gilder: 

.     .     .     All  my  brain  can  conceive  now  is  arms  with 

braid,  legs,  coats,  eagles,  caps,  legs,  arms,  hands,  caps, 

eagles,  eagles,  caps,  and  so  on;  nothing,  nothing  but 

257 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

that  statue.  All  I  have  done  besides  is  to  finish  the 
Woolsey  myself.  But  I  have  n't  got  it  off  yet  and  I 
mean  to  exhibit  it  at  the  A.  A.  A.  By  the  way,  have 
you  heard  anything  about  their  movements?  Has 
Mrs.  Gilder  made  any  studies  and  any  of  those  excel- 
lent sketch  copies?  There  's  lots  of  good  work  in  Lon- 
don. I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  do  like  so  many 
others,  fasten  on  to  London,  remain  there,  and  become 
a  Britisher.  I  have  not  touched  your  medallion.  But 
when  you  get  back  here  I  want  some  photographs  of 
you,  to  finish  it  as  I  wish.  How 's  Rod?  What  and 
how  are  you  all?  We  had  a  regular  "shindy"  Christ- 
mas eve  and  we  wanted  you  here.  I  have  news  occa- 
sionally from  WTiite,  but  it 's  only  business.     .     .     . 

Finally,  here  is  Mrs.  Emerson's  description  of  the  period: 
"In  the  autumn  of  1878  I  joined  your  father  and  mother  in 
Paris,  just  before  the  closing  of  the  Salon.  They  were  keep- 
ing house  in  an  apartment  on  the  fourth  floor  of  3  Rue  Hers- 
chel,  a  short  street  between  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel  and  the 
Avenue  de  l'Observatoire,  a  park-like  avenue  running  from  the 
Luxembourg  gardens  to  the  Observatory.  Your  father's  stu- 
dio was  at  49  Rue  Notre  Dame  des  Champs,  I  think,  and  we 
all  enjoyed  the  walk  to  and  from  it,  through  the  Luxembourg 
gardens. 

"We  had  many  bright,  amusing  times  in  that  little  apart- 
ment. From  the  two  long  French  windows  of  the  salon,  or 
from  the  iron  balconies  outside,  we  looked  over  to  the  towers 
of  St.  Sulpice,  often  turning  back  from  that  vision  in  the  cold 
fog,  to  a  bright  fire  in  the  grate,  and  to  many  of  the  familiar 
furnishings  that  you  later  had  in  Washington  Place,  New 
York.  There  was  a  small  room  somewhere  into  which  your 
Uncle  Louis  tucked  himself.     He  had  recently  joined  us  and 

258 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

was  not  very  well  and  your  father  was  anxious  about  him. 
Your  father  had  a  great  and  loyal  love  for  Louis,  and  the 
charm  of  Louis'  personality  always  kept  an  extraordinary  hold 
on  him. 

"On  Sunday  afternoons  we  often  went  to  the  Louvre ;  many 
hours  have  I  spent  with  your  father  in  the  Salon  Carre,  and 
it  must  have  been  he  who  helped  me  to  feel  the  charm  and 
power  of  the  old  masters.  I  remember  that,  before  I  went  to 
Italy  in  the  spring  of  1879,  White  made  for  me  a  table  of  the 
masters  of  the  different  schools  and,  half  jokingly,  put  your 
father's  name  in  the  list. 

"Usually  on  Sunday  afternoons,  after  a  visit  to  the  Louvre, 
we  all  went  to  a  Pasdeloup  classical  concert  in  the  Cirque 
d'Hiver.  The  Boccherini  minuet  was  the  great  encore,  and  sent 
us  tripping  home. 

"At  supper  the  important  feature  was  'puddin','  a  delicious 
and  liberal  concoction  of  rice,  milk  and  raisins,  always  sol- 
emnly announced  by  Louis  and  White.  Berthe,  the  French 
maid  of  all  work  of  uncertain  age,  whose  every  hair  was  ex- 
actly laid  with,  not  pomatum  but  something  stickier,  and  whose 
starched  cap-strings  were  tied  in  a  bow  at  the  back  with  geo- 
metric precision,  was  a  host  in  herself.  Woe  to  him  who  dis- 
turbed her  when  she  was  polishing  the  waxed  floors,  leaving  no 
seat  or  spot  for  the  unwary  loafer!  Oh,  the  seven-course 
company  dinners  she  cooked  on  two  charcoal  holes  in  the  dimin- 
utive kitchen,  and  served  with  elegance! 

"On  Christmas  Eve,  after  your  father  and  White  had  made 
their  Christmas  purchases  and  brought  home  greens  for  dress- 
ing the  salons,  we  all  went  out  on  the  Boulevards  to  be  a  part 
of  the  gaiety,  and  then  at  midnight  to  St.  Sulpice  to  hear 
Faure  sing  Noel.  The  studio  often  rang  with  your  father's 
repetition  of  it. 

"Occasionally  we  would  have  a  treat  and  go  to  the  Comedie 
Francaise,  or  to  the  Grand  Opera,  where  we  often  sat  in  the 
upper  galleries.     One  part  of  the  evening's  entertainment  was 

259 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

the  stroll  in  the  Foyer  to  look  at  the  Baudry  frescoes  and  the 
gay  crowd,  or  upon  the  grand  balcony  to  get  the  effect  of  the 
wonderful  perspectives  of  the  brilliantly  lighted  Avenue  de 
l'Opera,  and  the  motionless  mounted  guards,  under  the  great 
street  candelabra  just  outside  the  Opera  House,  armed  cap-a- 
pie  like  the  Ghost  of  Hamlet's  father. 

"William  Gedney  Bunce  was  in  Paris  that  winter  and  used  a 
corner  of  your  father's  studio  for  his  easel.  He  was  then  mak- 
ing a  name  for  himself  through  his  wonderfully  brilliant  paint- 
ing of  Venice;  and  of  all  his  colors  he  loved  yellow  the  best. 
One  evening,  when  your  mother  and  I  had  waited  almost  beyond 
endurance  for  them  to  come  home  to  dinner,  your  father,  Louis 
and  White  appeared,  weary,  and  well-coated  with  yellow. 

"  'What  has  happened?'  we  exclaimed. 

"  'Bunce  had  a  yellow  day,'  they  replied. 

"'A  yellow  day?' 

"  'A  yellow  day.  He  started  to  smear  that  color  over  one 
of  his  Venetian  sketches,  so  we  got  rid  of  him  while  we  smeared 
it  off — over  everything.' 

"Joe  Evans,  too,  was  often  with  us  in  Paris.  He  was  then 
a  student  at  the  Beaux  Arts  and  a  favorite  with  all.  Later 
in  life,  when  he  became  President  of  the  Art  Students'  League 
in  New  York,  your  father  had  often  to  confer  with  him,  and 
he  would  refer  with  admiration  to  Joe  Evans'  ability,  and  to 
his  wit  and  charm. 

"One  Sunday  morning  your  father  sent  to  the  apartment 
from  the  studio  an  enthusiastic  letter  from  White  at  Rheims. 
Your  father  must  join  him  at  once  and  see  the  wonderful 
Gothic  figures  on  the  outside  of  the  Cathedral.  Your  mother 
looked  me  over  and  decided  that,  if  I  had  a  bonnet  instead  of 
my  hat  and  a  plain  gold  ring  on  the  third  finger  of  my  left 
hand,  I  could  go  too.  We  worked  away,  and  in  the  afternoon 
your  father  and  I  took  the  train  for  Rheims  and  joined  White. 
We  stayed  at  a  little  commercial  hotel.  In  the  evening,  in  our 
tiny  parlor,  they  roasted  apples  on  strings  before  a  big  fire, 

260 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

while  I  darned  White's  socks.  We  were  off  for  the  wonderful 
cathedral  early  in  the  morning,  spending  our  money  lavishly 
for  photographs  of  details,  and,  with  scarcely  any  left,  we  took 
the  third-class  carriage  for  Laon  in  the  afternoon.  Another 
wonder  was  this  picturesque  hill  town,  with  its  rare  early 
Gothic  Cathedral  surmounting  all.  Lighting  our  way  with  a 
torch,  the  old  verger  took  us  through  the  galleries  high  up 
among  the  arches.  As  we  left  the  Cathedral,  turning  our 
backs  on  the  great  doors  and  high  towers,  and  passed  back 
towards  and  through  the  medieval  gates  of  the  town  and  on 
down  to  the  railroad  station,  the  lights  on  the  great  misty 
plain  were  like  lights  at  sea.  We  counted  our  coins.  White 
took  enough  to  carry  him  back  third-class  to  Rheims,  and 
your  father  and  I  arrived  in  Paris  with  three  or  four  sous 
between  us. 

"Some  time  after,  while  I  was  in  Italy  in  the  Spring, 
Berthe's  reign  came  to  an  end.  It  was  soon  discovered  that 
the  new  incumbent  was  wont,  at  times,  to  imbibe  too  freely. 
One  day  for  dessert  your  father  asked  for  some  marmalade. 
The  bonne  entered,  bearing  with  uncertain  steps  a  white  pot 
of  molasses ;  molassess  and  marmalade  were  sold  by  the 
epiciers  in  the  same  kind  of  round  white  pots.  'No,'  said 
your  mother,  'it  is  marmalade  we  want.  This  is  molasses.' 
Bewildered,  the  bonne  turned  on  her  heel  as  well  as  she  could, 
and  after  several  minutes  returned  with  a  second  white  pot. 
But  the  idea  of  putting  the  right  one  on  the  table  was  too 
much  for  her,  and  finally  she  tottered  out,  bearing  away  both, 
contemplating  each  in  turn,  murmuring  in  dulcet  tones,  'Mar- 
malade !  Melasse !  Melasse !  Marmalade !  Marmalade,  Me — ' 
till  out  of  hearing." 

Indeed,  the  young  artists  that  made  the  house  in  the  Rue 
Herschel  their  rendezvous  must  have  been  a  healthy  group,  for 
they  had  no  morbid  introspection  of  themselves  or  of  their 
work.  One  Christmas,  for  instance,  White  bought  a  mistletoe 
and  hung  it  in  the  center  of  the  room  while  the  rest  played 

261 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

"dumb  crambo."  Then  Louis  Saint-Gaudens  became  a  horse 
for  some  one  else  in  an  easy  chair  whom  White,  as  footman, 
tried  to  push  under  the  mistletoe, — and  did  not  succeed. 
Again,  their  chief  delight  after  meal  hours  was  to  watch  the 
number  of  black  cigars  which  Samuel  Clemens  could  consume, 
until  they  hailed  as  the  signal  to  go  home  the  question,  "What 
is  Art?"  But  more  typical  than  anything  else  of  their  attitude 
towards  one  another  was  my  father's  constant  answer  to  a 
query  as  to  the  personality  of  the  latest  stranger  whom  he  was 
to  bring  to  supper,  "Oh,  another  crank,"  he  would  say. 


262 


X 

NEW  YORK  AND  ITS  FRIENDSHIPS 

1880-1890 

The  Farragut  Unveiling — Other  Work  in  the  Sherwood  Studio — The 
Randall — The  Destruction  of  the  Morgan  Tomb — Friends — Louis 
Saint-Gaudens — Joseph  M.  Wells — Stanford  White — Thomas 
Dewing — George  Fletcher  Babb — Richard  Watson  Gilder — Daily 
Life — Western  Trip  with  White. 

THE  Paris  days  over,  the  reminiscences  once  more  take 
up  Saint-Gaudens'  life  in  New  York.  His  brief  ac- 
count commences  with  that  all-important  incident  of 
his  return,  the  unveiling  of  the  Farragut  monument.  In  what 
he  says  he  gives  expression,  for  the  first  time,  to  the  under- 
current of  sentiment  with  which  he  regarded  his  work.  Yet 
the  expression  is  most  restrained,  since,  like  Bernard  Saint- 
Gaudens,  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  suffered  throughout  his 
days  from  a  habit  of  suppressing  his  strong  emotions.  A 
story  illustrating  the  nature  of  this  inheritance  was  told  me 
not  long  ago  by  Mr.  W.  W.  Ellsworth,  who  writes : 

"A  few  nights  after  the  unveiling,  your  father  and  mother 
and  I  came  up  Fifth  Avenue  from  the  Gilders'.  It  was  about 
midnight,  and  as  we  approached  the  statue  we  saw  an  old  man 
standing  in  front  of  it  (I  think  his  hat  was  off).  Your  father 
said :  'Why,  that 's  father,'  and  going  up  to  him,  'What  are 
you  doing  here  at  this  hour?' 

"  'Oh,  you  go  about  your  business !  Have  n't  I  a  right 
to  be  here?'  the  old  man  replied,  and  we  left  him  standing 
there  in  the  moonlight." 

Especially  did  this  unveiling  prove  important  to  Augustus 

263 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Saint-Gaudens,  because  at  last  it  put  a  period  to  one  allot- 
ment of  "the  toughness  that  pervades  a  sculptor's  life." 
For  this  toughness  steadily  followed  him  through  this  com- 
mission, as  through  most  of  his  later  ones,  since  his  Farra- 
gut  difficulties  did  not  end  in  Paris,  but  accompanied  him 
home.  There  they  continued  even  with  such  apparently  sim- 
ple matters  as  the  disposition  of  the  paths  about  the  monu- 
ment, a  chance  for  interference  grasped  by  the  Park  Depart- 
ment at  every  opportunity,  even  down  to  the  time  of  one  of 
his  last  big  commissions,  the  Sherman  monument.  Here  is  a 
portion  of  a  letter  which  explains  the  trend  of  these  worries, 
written  by  Saint-Gaudens  to  Mr.  Charles  H.  Marshall,  Sec- 
retary of  the  Farragut  Monument  Association: 

.  .  .  The  approach  with  pebbles  will  cost  one 
hundred  dollars  at  the  outside,  more  probably  sixty 
dollars,  or  eighty  dollars,  and  if  done  in  asphal- 
tum  twenty-five  dollars  less.  To  my  objections, 
as  stated  in  the  petition,  I  now  add  that,  as 
an  artist,  I  feel  satisfied  that  any  stranger  of 
judgment  in  such  matters,  on  seeing  the  monument 
with  the  sod  as  it  is  now,  could  not  but  think  it  affected 
and  ridiculous,  which  it  is;  therefore  making  another 
object  of  ridicule  in  New  York  monuments,  besides  be- 
ing positively  unfair  to  Mr.  White,  myself,  and  our 
judgment  as  artists.  The  work  on  the  pedestal,  em- 
bodying a  great  deal  of  the  honor  due  to  the  Admiral, 
is  now  lost,  the  monument  incomplete,  the  inscription, 
the  most  important  part,  not  seen,  and  the  figures  not 
understood,  they  having  been  modeled  to  be  seen  at  the 
distance  at  which  the  public  would  naturally  approach 
a  work  of  that  character. 

264 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

With  the  unveiling,  however,  as  I  have  said,  my  father's 
faithfulness  had  its  own  reward,  in  the  form  of  his  first  real 
public  recognition.  To  describe  it  I  will  quote  a  typical  ex- 
tract printed  in  the  New  York  Times  during  the  course  of  that 
year. 

"...  Most  striking  are  the  articles  on  Farragut  this 
week  in  Scribner's,  a  worthy  statue  of  whom  has  just  been  un- 
veiled in  New  York.  Mr.  Gilder  has  to  accompany  the  illus- 
tration of  the  statue  a  few  pages  of  descriptive  and  critical 
matter  in  which  he  makes  some  wholesome  observations  on  pub- 
lic statues  in  this  city.  General  sympathy  will  be  expressed 
with  what  he  says  of  *a  still  increasing  company  of  hideous 
and  imbecile  monuments,  some  home-made  and  some  imported, 
the  work  in  certain  instances  of  well-known,  but  half-educated 
and  poorly  endowed  sculptors,  and  in  others  of  nameless  and 
shameless  adventurers.'  He  finds  in  St.-Gaudens'  statue  a  work 
of  extraordinary  artistic  value  and  'a  sign  of  the  increase  of 
the  art  spirit  in  America.' " 

But  even  more  to  the  point  than  this  newspaper  glory,  as 
showing  the  immediate  appreciation  of  the  world  around  him, 
were  the  letters  written  him  by  his  well-known  friends.  Here 
is  one  from  Mr.  D.  Maitland  Armstrong,  with  whom  he  had 
been  intimate  in  Paris.  At  that  time  Mr.  Armstrong  was 
such  a  power  in  the  American  art  world  that  a  word  from  him 
meant  the  praise  of  many  artists. 

Dear  Saint-G.: 

When  I  went  over  to  see  your  statue  this  morning,  and  saw 
the  whole  thing  there  before  me,  it  fairly  took  my  breath  away, 
and  brought  my  heart  into  my  mouth.  It  is  perfectly  mag- 
nificent. I  have  n't  felt  so  about  anything  for  years.  The 
sight  of  such  a  thing  renews  one's  youth,  and  makes  one  think 
that  life  is  worth  living  after  all.  I  felt  as  I  have  only  done 
about  a  few  things  in  my  life,  some  of  the  fine  old  things,  or 
as  I  did  when  I  saw  Bastien-Lepage's  big  picture  in  the  Salon 

265 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

three  years  ago.  Only  more  so,  because  here  I  love  not  only 
the  work  but  the  worker.  I  thought,  too,  of  all  your  manful 
struggles  through  all  these  years,  your  fight  against  all  odds, 
with  only  your  heart  and  brains  and  will  to  help  you,  and  I  said 
to  myself,  "Well  done!" 

I  think  in  a  little  while  that  it  will  begin  to  dawn  upon  you 
that  you  have  done  more  for  the  world  than  you  thought, 
that  you  have  "builded  better  than  you  knew" — for  I  was  sur- 
prised to  see  how  the  rabble  about  the  statue  spoke  of  it,  and 
how  they  seemed  to  be  touched  by  it.  It  is  a  revelation  to 
them,  and  what  is  more,  I  feel  that  they  are  ready  and  long- 
ing for  better  art.  It  cheers  one  to  think  it.  They  seemed 
to  be  touched  a  little  as  the  crowds  in  old  Florence  were 
touched,  when  some  great  fellow  set  up  some  stunning  thing 
in  the  market-place.  And  I  felt  like  one  of  the  great  old  fel- 
low's dear  friends,  who  knew  how  great  he  was,  and  felt  happy 
in  the  knowledge  that  at  last  the  world  knew  it  too,  for  I  did 
not  discover  Saint-Gaudens,  as  most  men  did,  yesterday.  They 
all  think  that  you  are  a  great  gun  to-day,  but  I  knew  it  before. 

You  have  gone  beyond  art,  and  reached  out  and  touched  the 
universal  heart  of  man.  You  have  preached  a  small  sermon 
on  truth,  honor,  courage,  and  loyalty,  that  will  do  more  good 
than  all  the  reasonings  of  philosophers.  You  have  brought 
great  truths  close  to  the  hearts  of  men,  truths  that  were,  and 
will  be,  the  same  "yesterday,  to-day  and  forever." 

It  is  a  pleasant  thing,  my  friend,  to  think  of,  that  when 
you  have  "gone  into  quiet  silence,"  all  through  the  coming 
years,  how  many  weary  feet  bearing  weary  hearts  will  gain 
strength  there,  how  many  despairing  souls  pluck  up  strength 
for  the  battle  of  life.     .     .     . 

I  hope  that  you  will  not  think  that  I  am  drunk,  but  my 
heart  is  full  and  I  write  from  the  bottom  of  it.  I  congratu- 
late you  and  White  with  all  my  heart.  Don't  think  that  I 
want  any  answer  to  this,  and  forgive  me  for  boring  you. 

Ever  your  friend,  Maitland  Armstrong. 

266 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Saint-Gaudens'  own  feelings  regarding  his  result  did  not,  I 
think,  alter  in  any  way  because  of  even  such  laudatory  ex- 
pressions as  these.  They  surely  did  not  in  after  life,  and  I 
have  no  reason  to  believe  that  they  differed  then.  Therefore, 
this  portion  of  a  letter  to  John  La  Farge,  written  while  yet 
in  Paris,  on  December  29,  1879,  may  be  accepted  as  true  of 
his  attitude  toward  his  work  during  the  days  that  immedi- 
ately followed  the  unveiling. 

.  .  .  I  first  wish  to  write  you  about  your  draw- 
ing of  "Christ  and  Nicodemus"  that  I  saw  in  Harper's 
sometime  ago — I  was  really  stirred  by  it,  and  as  I  had 
just  returned  from  Italy  I  was  all  the  more  impressed. 
I  am  speaking  sincerely.  I  had  never  felt  that  I  have 
done  what  I  wanted  to  do  until  I  have  written  to  you 
what  I  felt  about  it. 

My  Farragut  will  soon  be  finished  and  then,  when 
the  bronze  is  cast,  I  return.  I  am  completely  abruti. 
I  have  n't  the  faintest  idea  of  the  merit  of  what  I  Ve 
produced.  At  times  I  think  it's  good,  then  in- 
different, then  bad.  I  will  see  what  I  can  do 
with  the  two  low-reliefs.  I  am  certainly  very 
anxious  to  get  your  opinion  of  the  whole  work. 
I  have  been  expecting  you  here  but  I  hope,  now  that 
I  am  going  back,  you  are  to  remain,  for  I  feel  the  neces- 
sity of  your  influence  more  than  anyone  I  know. 

The  reminiscences  themselves  are  unfortunately  far  too  brief, 
not  only  in  recording  Saint-Gaudens*  sensation  at  his  first 
large  unveiling,  but  also  in  their  mention  of  the  other  tasks 
which  surrounded  and  followed  it.     My  father  writes : 

I  had  the  Farragut  cast  in  Paris  by  a  man  named 

267 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Gruet,  but  the  first  attempt  failed,  so  that  it  needed  to 
be  done  over.  When  it  had  been  completed  success- 
fully we  came  back  to  New  York,  where  I  was  destined 
to  remain  for  seventeen  years  before  returning  to  Eu- 
rope, a  period  virtually  launched  by  the  unveiling  of 
my  statue  in  Madison  Square  upon  the  afternoon  of  a 
beautiful  day  in  May,  1881. 

These  formal  unveilings  of  monuments  are  impres- 
sive affairs  and  variations  from  the  toughness  that  per- 
vades a  sculptor's  life.  For  we  constantly  deal  with 
practical  problems,  with  molders,  contractors,  der- 
ricks, stone-men,  ropes,  builders,  scaffoldings,  marble 
assistants,  bronze-men,  trucks,  rubbish  men,  plasterers, 
and  what-not  else,  all  the  while  trying  to  soar  into  the 
blue.  But  if  managed  intelligently,  there  is  a  swing 
to  unveilings,  and  the  moment  when  the  veil  drops 
from  the  monument  certainly  makes  up  for  many  of 
the  woes  that  go  toward  the  creating  of  the  work.  On 
this  special  occasion,  Mr.  Joseph  H.  Choate  delivered 
the  oration.  The  sailors  who  assisted  added  to  the 
picturesqueness  of  the  procession.  The  artillery 
placed  in  the  park,  back  of  the  statue,  was  discharged. 
And  when  the  figure  in  the  shadow  stood  revealed,  and 
the  smoke  rolled  up  into  the  sunlight  upon  the  build- 
ings behind  it,  the  sight  gave  an  impression  of  dignity 
and  beauty  that  it  would  take  a  rare  pen  to  describe. 

By  this  time  I  had  leased  a  small  studio  in  the  Sher- 
wood Building,  on  the  corner  of  Fifty-seventh  Street 
and  Sixth  Avenue,  where  I  had  begun  upon  the  study 
of  Robert  Richard  Randall  from  the  model  I  had  made 

268 


T. 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

in  Paris.  The  work  caused  me  endless  worry,  for 
after  I  had  completed  it  in  this  form  and  had  sent  it  up 
to  125th  Street  to  be  enlarged,  I  became  discontented 
and  tore  it  down  to  commence  again.  This  was  fortu- 
nate, since  as  it  now  stands  it  is  certainly  infinitely  bet- 
ter than  the  previous  attempt.  Meanwhile,  I  had  other 
occupations  in  which  I  completed  my  first  commissions 
for  portrait  medallions, — those  of  Mr.  S.  G.  Ward,  the 
sons  of  Mr.  Prescott  Hall  Butler,  and  Miss  Sarah  Red- 
wood Lee. 

During  this  period  my  son  Homer  was  born  in  Rox- 
bury,  Massachusetts,  and  Mrs.  Saint-Gaudens  lived 
with  her  father  and  mother  while  attending  to  the  new 
young  man.  So  I  slept  in  a  chamber  adjoining  the 
studio,  with  my  brother  Louis  as  my  assistant.  Louis 
is  a  lover  of  sleep,  and  wise  enough  to  indulge  in  it  upon 
every  occasion,  rising  at  times  so  late  that  I  will  say 
nothing  about  the  hour.  One  noon,  on  returning  from 
a  several  days'  absence  in  Boston,  I  walked  into  the  bed- 
room where  he  was  peacefully  dreaming  at  about  eleven 
o'clock.  Across  the  wall,  directly  opposite  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  he  had  fastened  an  immense  piece  of  paper  five 
feet  in  height,  extending  the  entire  width  of  the  room, 
about  twelve  feet,  and  on  this  he  had  marked  in 
very  large,  black  letters  the  words  from  Proverbs: 
Yet  a  little  sleep,  a  little  slumber,  a  little  folding  of  the 
hands  to  sleep.  So  shall  thy  poverty  come  as  one  that 
traveleih,  and  thy  want  as  an  armed  man.  This  stared 
down  at  him  when  he  awoke  o'  mornings  from  his 
blissful  repose. 

271 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

My  father  has  no  more  to  say  about  his  efforts  in  the  Sher- 
wood Studio.  Yet  the  period  was  not  only  as  active  as  those 
that  preceded  it,  but  it  was  the  culmination  of  his  struggle 
to  establish  himself  permanently  in  the  ranks  of  mature  artists. 
Throughout  this  time,  life  contained  rather  more  of  both  pain 
and  pleasure  than  he  cared  to  admit,  with  his  nature  so  re- 
pressed upon  the  surface,  yet  beneath  so  sensitive  to  emotion. 
Of  the  commissions  he  mentioned,  the  "Randall"  left  the 
studio  much  to  his  relief,  since,  through  the  crochets  of  the 
Committee  he  had  become  so  disgusted  that  he  never  could  find 
himself  on  good  terms  with  the  work;  and  all  his  life  this 
feeling  remained,  even  in  his  later  years  his  most  optimistic 
remark  concerning  the  commission  being,  "the  less  said  about 
the  'Randall'  the  better."  The  other  tasks  of  which  he  has 
written,  on  the  contrary,  gave  him  unalloyed  pleasure.  He 
undoubtedly  liked  best  of  them  the  medallions  of  Mr.  Ward 
and  Miss  Lee.  The  "Ward"  he  modeled  in  the  lowest-relief  he 
ever  attempted.  The  medallion  of  Miss  Lee  he  originally  made 
on  a  panel  which  also  contained  a  profile  of  her  mother.  But 
upon  the  completion  of  this  double  portrait,  the  attractions 
of  the  astonishingly  beautiful  girl  of  sixteen  held  the  sculptor 
so  entranced  that  he  refused  to  leave  his  occupation,  and  cut- 
ting his  study  of  her  head  and  neck  from  the  original  relief 
of  herself  and  her  mother,  he  modeled  a  new  composition  in 
the  now  popular  form  which  shows  her  waist  and  hands. 

In  these  days,  as  well,  came  other  works  of  which  my  father 
has  not  spoken,  the  completion  of  the  Morgan  Tomb,  the  Wool- 
sey  bust,  and  the  bas-reliefs  of  William  M.  Chase  and  of  my- 
self. The  last  three  need  no  further  mention,  but  with  the 
Morgan  figures  it  is  another  matter.  These  angels,  which 
next  to  the  "Farragut"  my  father  regarded  as  the  most  im- 
portant commission  of  the  time,  he  refrains  from  mentioning, 
undoubtedly  because  of  his  dislike  of  dwelling  upon  the  tragic. 
The  Morgan  monument  was  doomed  to  furnish  the  first  of  the 
series  of  fires  which,  from  time  to  time,  destroyed  portions  of 

272 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

my  father's  work  and  which,  in  this  case,  brought  to  no  pur- 
pose all  the  schemes  of  the  young  sculptor  and  his  architect. 
From  the  beginning  the  actual  creation  of  these  nine-foot 
figures  progressed  more  favorably  than  their  best  desires.  So 
that,  after  their  completion  in  the  studio,  they  were  sent  to  the 
cemetery,  with  the  highest  expectations  of  success,  to  be  cut 
on  the  spot  in  an  Italian  marble  imported  at  much  pains. 
There,  in  order  to  further  the  work  during  the  winter,  a  shed 
was  built  around  them ;  and  this  shed,  when  the  task  had  drawn 
to  within  three  weeks  of  completion  burned  one  night,  leaving 
the  stone  so  badly  chipped  as  to  be  useless.  It  was  thought 
that  the  calamity  was  due  to  an  incendiary  who  bore  my  father 
a  grudge.  The  blow  was  brutally  severe.  Not  only,  in  the 
intense  youthful  effort  which  my  father  spent  upon  his  task, 
had  he  begged  and  borrowed  money  against  the  final  pay- 
ment, in  order  that  the  result  should  have  all  the  artistic 
strength  he  might  impart  to  it,  but  also,  through  a  series  of 
misunderstandings  with  the  stone-cutters,  he  had  neglected  to 
place  any  insurance  on  the  monument.  Consequently,  in  ad- 
dition to  his  other  troubles,  he  was  faced  with  a  financial 
breakdown.  Here  is  what  he  wrote  to  my  mother  concerning 
the  situation : 

You  have  probably  seen  by  the  papers  the  calamity 
that  has  happened.  The  shed  around  the  Morgan 
group  was  burned  down  and  my  whole  work  is  an  utter 
and  absolute  ruin.  What  is  going  to  become  of  the 
matter  I  don't  know,  and  I  dread  to  think  of  it.  None 
of  my  lawyer  friends  are  in  town,  and  I  could  only  find 
a  friend  of  George  Morris'  who  tells  me  that,  through  a 
peculiarity,  I  can  make  the  executors  responsible  and 
obtain  the  five  thousand  dollars  still  due  me.  But  I 
don't  know  what  I  'm  doing.     I  went  to  Hartford  yes- 

273 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

terday,  and  none  of  the  executors  are  in  town.  The 
principal  one  I  will  see  on  Monday.  I  can't  write. 
You  know  all  I  do.  Perhaps  to-morrow  I  can  be 
clearer. 

It 's  a  legal  quibble — the  executors  might  make  me 
responsible  and  want  their  three  thousand  dollars  back. 

Gus. 

With  such  an  unfortunate  outlook  immediately  after  the  fire, 
matters  went  from  bad  to  worse,  until  Mr.  C.  C.  Beaman,  who 
had  grown  interested  in  my  father's  sculpture,  entered  into  the 
case,  with  the  result  that  the  executors  paid  to  my  father  three 
thousand  five  hundred  dollars,  his  bare  expenses.  This  money 
consideration  was  the  very  least  of  what  troubled  him,  how- 
ever. For  money  meant  nothing  to  him  but  the  power  to 
produce  work.  And  the  work  that  was  gone  was  probably  his 
strongest  effort  of  the  time,  a  work  that  would  have  outranked 
the  "Farragut,"  a  work  that  would  have  satisfied  in  a  slight 
measure  his  desire  to  create  some  purely  imaginative  compo- 
sition as  a  relief  from  the  succession  of  portraits  that  fate 
thrust  upon  him.  The  only  satisfaction  to  be  gained  is  that 
the  thought  and  time  devoted  to  these  figures  was  to  be  of  use 
again  in  forming  the  foundation  for  the  later  Smith  tomb 
figure  which  he  modeled  in  1886  and  the  ultimate  "Angel  with 
the  Tablet,"  or  "Amor  Caritas"  as  it  is  most  frequently  called, 
which  he  completed  in  1898. 

For  the  seventeen  years  following  my  father  worked  in  his 
studio  at  148  West  Thirty-Sixth  Street,  where  he  moved,  feel- 
ing that  at  last  his  position  had  become  assured.  It  is  proper 
then  to  refer  again  to  that  group  of  men  among  whom  he 
maintained  that  position.  As  in  Paris  it  was  the  Society  of 
American  Artists,  which  remained  the  nucleus  of  those  efforts  to 
which  he  subscribed.  This  was  more  than  fortunate  because 
the  Society  was  succeeding.     Whereas  in  1878  only  twenty- 

274 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

two  men  exhibited  at  the  Kurtz  Gallery,  by  1881  the  member- 
ship had  grown  to  fifty-two,  including  such  academicians  as 
John  La  Farge,  George  Inness,  Thomas  Moran  and  Homer 
Martin,  while  in  1888,  despite  a  continued  lack  of  funds  and 
proper  galleries,  over  one  hundred  names  stood  on  the  list. 
Such  a  happy  set  of  prosperity  was  due,  in  a  large  measure,  to 
one  quality  so  often  absent  in  a  young  protesting  group,  a 
generous  attitude  towards  the  body  from  which  they  had  sep- 
arated. Their  reason  for  creating  a  distinct  organization 
from  the  Academy  had  been  that  the  Academy  hung  work  on 
the  basis  of  personal  friendship  and  was  restricted  by  a  nar- 
row taste  in  art.  But  at  the  same  time  they  made  no  attempt 
to  fight  the  Academy.  Rather  they  took  the  position  that 
they  were  simply  a  younger  and  broader  institution,  ready 
to  include  on  an  equal  footing  both  the  old  and  the  new,  and 
even  went  so  far  as  to  place  no  limit  on  the  size  of  member- 
ship, and  to  declare  that  no  favors  would  be  shown  members 
in  the  hanging. 

The  sole  regrettable  consequence  of  such  an  eclectic  stand 
was  a  lack  of  any  unified  aim.  Especially  did  the  organiza- 
tion suffer  from  many  who  regarded  it  as  a  species  of  short 
cut  to  distinction,  in  consequence  of  which  studies  and  sketches 
were  mingled  with  Salon  pictures,  open  air  compositions,  works 
of  minute  realism,  tonal  schemes,  and  impressionism.  Had  the 
nation  at  that  time  shown  itself  enthusiastic  towards  art  there 
is  no  telling  into  what  exaggerations  these  branches  might 
have  spread.  Those  early  days,  however,  were  ones  of  hard 
traveling  for  budding  genius.  The  old  type  of  art  had  been 
worn  out,  it  is  true,  but  the  new  was  crude  and  the  public 
timid.  So,  fortunately,  only  after  the  young  men  had  learned 
discretion,  did  increasing  wealth,  ease  of  travel,  and  illus- 
trated magazines  begin  to  develop  a  proper  market. 

In  the  course  of  these  trying  experiences,  the  Munich  paint- 
ers first  came  to  their  own.  Frank  Duveneck,  Walter  Shirlaw 
and  William  M.  Chase  were  their  leaders.     Duveneck  possessed 

275 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

a  brilliancy  and  dash  hitherto  lacking  in  his  school,  and  al- 
though beginning  with  dark,  rich  backgrounds,  developed 
through  the  years  a  power  of  handling  cool  gray  shadows. 
Shirlaw,  too,  broke  away  from  the  rut  of  his  fellow  students 
with  an  unusual  width  and  sweep  in  his  frank  handling  of  his 
decorative  ability.  But  Chase,  for  ten  years  President  of  the 
Society,  exerted  probably  the  greatest  influence.  From  the 
very  first  he  became  an  aggressive  fighter  for  his  own  canons. 
In  rapid  succession  he  attempted  every  branch  of  his  art, 
and  while  through  this  process  the  dark  Munich  touches  were 
replaced  by  luminous  color,  he  never  lost  his  vital  individu- 
ality or  delight  in  technique. 

Of  the  French-taught  group,  who  were  rapidly  succeeding 
in  power,  Sargent  stood  obviously  at  the  head,  despite  the 
fact  that  he  lived  for  a  greater  part  of  the  time  in  England; 
while  near  him  in  those  days  were  Wyatt  Eaton,  who  showed 
his  graceful  sense  for  tone  and  color,  whether  in  heads  or 
figure,  J.  Alden  Weir,  possessed  of  sympathetic  understand- 
ing of  his  subjects,  coupled  with  marked  strength  and  an  im- 
pressionistic kinship  with  Childe  Hassam  and  painters  of  his 
creed,  Thomas  W.  Dewing,  delicate  before  them  all  in  his 
charm  of  color  and  drawing,  and  Will  H.  Low,  of  whom  my 
father  has  spoken  with  such  affection. 

Outside  of  these  two  larger  bodies  followed  also  other  figure 
painters  of  power,  Edwin  A.  Abbey,  who  left  America  in  these 
days  to  illustrate  in  England  with  such  grace  the  conscious 
affectations  of  Robert  Herrick's  poetry,  and  Francis  Lathrop, 
almost  the  only  one  to  bring  home  an  English  training  and 
the  influence  of  the  Preraphaelite  school,  besides  many  land- 
scapists  like  Willard  L.  Metcalf  and  John  H.  Twachtman. 
While  ever  strong  through  them  all  rose  those  two  markedly 
individual  masters,  Winslow  Homer  and  John  La  Farge. 

It  might  seem  as  though  those  who  were  chiefly  important  in 
Saint-Gaudens'  development,  his  fellow  sculptors,  were  being 
ignored  in  this  review.     Rather,  however,  are  they  held  to  the 

276 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

last  for  the  sake  of  the  emphasis,  since  the  advance  in  sculp- 
ture was  even  more  marked  than  in  painting.  The  Italian 
school  had  nearly  vanished,  together  with  the  smug  neatness 
or  uncontrolled  abandon  of  the  amateur  age.  Instead  the 
Paris-trained  men  had  arrived  to  govern  American  feeling  with 
a  true  sense  of  form  and  sculptural  ideas.  Three  of  these 
artists  in  especial,  J.  Q.  A.  Ward,  Olin  Warner,  and  Daniel 
Chester  French,  joined  with  my  father  in  discovering  the  path 
that  led  out  from  the  forest  of  petrified  heroes  and  galvanized 
athletes  of  the  early  days.  Ward  had  become  unquestionably 
the  dean  of  sculptors.  Shortly  before  this  time,  in  1878,  he 
had  unveiled  his  "General  Thomas,"  a  statue  which  struck  the 
American  note  with  special  accuracy  because  of  its  lack  of 
ostentation  and  yet  power  of  easy,  unstinted  modeling.  Now 
in  1885,  followed  his  "Puritan,"  filled  with  an  austere  force  and 
conviction  that  showed  an  astonishing  grasp  of  subject.  Olin 
Warner,  about  1880,  returned  to  his  art  from  his  life  on  a  farm 
to  produce  a  bust  of  J.  Alden  Weir,  and  his  "Dancing 
Nymph."  Then  ensued  a  tour  through  the  West  with  a  series 
of  Indian  portraits  that  developed  his  understanding  of  medal- 
lion modeling  until  he  was  able  to  produce  such  reliefs  as  those 
of  Wyatt  Eaton  and  W.  C.  Brownell.  Few  men  in  those  days 
so  well  understood  the  power  of  instilling  a  sense  of  internal 
activity  into  a  form  outwardly  serene  through  a  marked  sensi- 
tiveness to  the  meaning  and  place  of  detail.  Finally  Daniel 
Chester  French  also,  though  decidedly  younger  than  these  two, 
with  his  bust  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  showed  delicacy  and  the 
force  of  his  mind,  and  with  his  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  group  at 
last  attacked  the  hitherto  untouched  problem  of  using  a  bust 
for  monumental  purposes  and  flanking  it  by  subordinate  deco- 
rative figures. 

These  then  were  the  artists  with  whom  my  father  labored, 
who,  in  turn,  were  most  loyal  to  his  interests.  Let  me  show, 
in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Gilder,  one  of  the  chief  causes  of  that  loy- 
alty, Saint-Gaudens'  level  independence  of  mind.     He  writes: 

277 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

February  21,  1881. 
My  dear  Gilder: 

There  seems  to  be  a  current  opinion  that  a  thing  to 
be  good  must  be  unfinished,  and  I  write  this  as  I  now 
understand  better  a  question  you  asked  me  in  Paris. 
Great  work  has  been  produced  in  both  ways,  cf.  Mil- 
let, and  some  of  the  Greeks  were  grand  in  the  simple. 
.  .  .  The  finish  or  lack  of  finish  has  nothing  to  do 
in  the  classification  of  a  work  as  good  or  bad — its  char- 
acter, regardless  of  that,  is  the  thing.  For  sculpture 
is  simply  one  of  the  means  of  expressing  oneself,  ac- 
cording to  the  temperament  of  the  worker.  Of  course, 
I  am  defending  myself  in  writing  you,  as  well  as  de- 
fending the  whole  profession,  but  I  thought  you  would 
like  to  know  what  I  thought  of  it.  Perhaps  I  've  told 
you  all  this  before,  but  it  keeps  coming  across  me,  and 
the  current  criticism  of  art  in  the  newspapers  in  that 
direction  irritates  me  so  that  I  felt  I  had  to  let  off  steam 
or  explode. 

So  far  I  have  spoken  almost  wholly  of  those  who  bore,  in 
a  more  or  less  general  way,  on  Saint-Gaudens'  development 
through  the  eighties.  Now,  however,  I  may  turn  to  mention 
his  more  especial  friends.  At  the  outset  those  with  whom  my 
father  became  intimate  were  men  of  the  caliber  of  Joseph 
Wells,  Stanford  White,  Thomas  W.  Dewing,  George  Fletcher 
Babb,  Charles  F.  McKim,  Will  H.  Low,  Joseph  Evans,  and 
Francis  Lathrop.  More  than  to  any  one  else,  however,  my 
father  exhibited  his  devotion  to  his  brother  Louis.  He  gave 
Louis  his  education  as  a  sculptor,  saw  to  it  that  he  had  work, 
and  clung  to  him  in  home  and  studio  through  every  possible 
hour  of  companionship.     With  Louis,  as  in  younger  days,  my 

278 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

father  was  happiest  on  rambling  excursions  when  he  could  best 
enjoy  his  brother's  reposeful  philosophy;  trips  to  the  seashore 
where  he  might  add  to  his  own  luxurious  contentment  and  the 
befrazzlement  of  his  brother's  nerves  by  swimming  languidly 
far  out  into  the  bay. 

In  unusual  sympathy  with  Louis'  outlook  on  the  world  came 
Joseph  Wells,  whose  early  death  my  father  felt  through  all 
his  life.  When  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  and  Wells  met,  Wells- 
was  the  leading  draftsman  for  McKim,  Mead  and  White,  with 
whom  he  designed,  among  other  buildings,  the  Villard  residence 
and  the  home  of  the  Century  Association  on  West  Forty- 
third  Street.  In  his  office  they  regarded  him  as  a  purist  in 
art  and  a  man  of  such  marked  ability  that,  shortly  before  his 
death,  they  had  asked  him  to  join  the  firm.  He  had  a  noble, 
kindly,  sensitive  nature  filled  with  a  power  of  keen,  telling  sa- 
tire and  high,  uncompromising  criticism  that  drew  upon  him 
the  nickname  of  "Dean  Swift."  His  strong  taste  for  music 
eventually  led  to  the  Sunday  afternoon  concerts  in  my  father's 
studio,  of  which  more  hereafter. 

White  also  continued  to  maintain  a  strong  influence  in  my 
father's  life  during  the  next  ten  years,  when  often  he  could 
be  found  in  the  vicinity  of  the  studio.  Undoubtedly  the  archi- 
tect's criticism  meant  much  to  the  sculptor.  It  held,  indeed, 
so  important  a  place  that  once,  when  White  scored  a  medallion 
of  himself  which  my  father  was  modeling,  the  latter  destroyed 
the  work  and  never  attempted  a  new  one.  Still,  for  the  most 
part,  Saint-Gaudens  refused  to  be  domineered  over,  for  he  soon 
discovered  his  friend's  idiosyncrasy  of  foisting  his  emphatic 
assertions  on  every  timorous  soul  around  him.  I  think  that 
the  first  conscious  reaction  against  this  attitude  came  very 
shortly  after  the  incident  I  have  mentioned,  while  the  sculptor 
was  completing  a  relief  of  White's  wife  near  the  time  of  their 
marriage.  The  architect,  on  discovering  Saint-Gaudens  at 
work  on  this  one  afternoon,  gazed  upon  the  relief  for  some 
moments    and    then    cried    out,    "Oh,    Gus,    that 's    rotten !" 

281 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Whereupon,  though  first  my  father  again  smashed  the  medal- 
lion into  bits,  later,  after  his  passion  was  spent,  he  set  pa- 
tiently at  reconstructing  the  relief.  The  waste  of  time  seemed 
unfortunate,  yet  Saint-Gaudens  had  learned  his  lesson,  as 
was  soon  proved  in  an  encounter  over  the  Ames  monument  in 
which  the  two  were  interested.  Among  other  things  this 
scheme  included  a  wreath  carved  in  relief  on  a  flat  stone.  It 
had  been  an  endless  subject  for  contention  between  them.  So 
at  last  one  afternoon  White  decided  to  settle  the  matter,  and 
rushed  into  the  studio  with  his  usual  effect  of  being  shot  from 
a  landslide. 

"Is  Gus  in?"  he  yelled. 

"N-no,"  was  the  shaky  response. 

Whereupon  he  dashed  by  the  door-boy  in  search  of  the  un- 
fortunate decorations. 

"Awful!"  he  exclaimed,  discovering  a  couple  of  the  experi- 
mental wreaths  upon  the  floor.     "Which  does  Gus  like?" 

They  pointed  to  the  highest  relief. 

"Huh ! "  he  gurgled.  "You  might  as  well  paint  it  green !" 
and  tore  out  again. 

Then  they  hid  the  wreaths  safe  from  any  impatient  and  de- 
stroying hand  and  warily  brought  the  news  to  my  father,  and 
silently  waited  the  thunder-clap. 

But  it  did  not  come.  All  my  father  said  was,  "Is  n't  it  pe- 
culiar how  opinions  differ?" 

Yet  despite  such  encounters,  the  two  men  cared  deeply  for 
one  another  and  were  probably  more  intimate  at  this  time 
than  in  any  of  the  later  years.  For  each  tolerated  the 
other's  peculiarities  humorously;  my  father,  in  his  hearty  ad- 
miration for  the  architect's  generosity  of  effort  and  high,  ar- 
tistic powers,  hoping  to  modify  his  drastic  nature,  White,  on 
his  part,  most  sincere  in  his  respect  for  the  sculptor's  ability 
and  fondly  anxious  to  make  a  "club  man"  of  him. 

Then  there  was  Thomas  Dewing,  the  heavy  man  who  paints 
delicate,  ethereal  pictures  which  my  father  regarded  as  by  far 

282 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

the  most  delightful  of  their  sort  in  the  land.  Moreover,  in 
the  currency  of  friendship,  Dewing's  highly-colored  fashion 
of  expressing  his  thoughts  kept  Saint-Gaudens  in  a  constant 
chuckle.  In  especial  was  my  father  fond  of  repeating  a  re- 
mark which  the  latter  made  one  day,  upon  the  sculptor's  re- 
fusing a  drink  of  water  after  a  long  hot  walk. 

"Saint-Gaudens  drink?"  Dewing  queried.  "Why,  don't  you 
know,  Saint-Gaudens  is  like  the  Arabs.  When  you  ask  an 
Arab  if  he  will  take  a  drink  he  replies,  'No,  I  thank  you,  I  had 
a  drink  ten  days  ago.'  " 

Another  of  these  especial  cronies,  George  Fletcher  Babb, 
the  architect,  had  then  but  recently  erected  the  De  Vinne  Press 
Building,  a  building  so  clean-cut  and  essentially  American  as 
to  win  him  instant  respect.  And  what  counted  for  as  much 
among  this  group  of  friends  was  Babb's  gift  for  quiet  cyni- 
cisms and  deep-laid  puns  that  kept  his  company  ever  on  the 
watch,  especially  when  Dewing,  also  a  cynic  and  a  fighter,  was 
in  the  vicinity. 

Aside  from  these  intimates,  my  father  had  friendships  with 
many  other  men  and  women  who  possessed  little  in  common 
with  one  another,  for  he  was  unusually  eclectic  in  his  likes. 
Their  names  and  many  of  their  personalities  appear  indirectly 
throughout  this  book.  Therefore  I  shall  speak  here  of  only 
one  among  them,  a  man  whose  keen  but  gentle  intelligence  he 
always  deeply  admired,  Richard  Watson  Gilder.  Here  are 
two  letters  to  him  which  reflect  the  terms  of  their  comrade- 
ship: 

58  West  Fifty-seventh  Street,  Nov.,  1880. 
Scene — 

Mulligan  Guard  Picnic  Court  Room — Assault  and 
Battery  Case. 
Personnel 
Crowd. 

283 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Judge. 

Accused— Thomas  Fagan— New  York  tough. 

Victim— Mr.  Swartzmuller— Trombone  player  in  the 
Mulligan  Guards. 

Judge:  "Mr.  Swartzmuller,  who  knocked  you  down?" 

Mr.  Swartzmuller:  "That  man,  Mister  Thomas  Fa- 
gan. 

Mr.  Fagan:  "Don't  call  me  Mister,  call  me  Tommy 
—Tommy  Fagan,  plain  Tommy  Fagan." 

I  have  your  note;  why  do  you  call  me  Mister?  What 
have  I  done  to  you?  All  right  about  the  medallion. 
Louis  has  already  reduced  it  to  two  feet  square,  and  in 
a  few  days  will  have  it  finished. 

I  ought  to  go  down  to  see  Mrs.  Gilder.  But  Sunday 
is  such  a  quiet  working  day  that  I  hate  to  leave.  What 
is  your  Donatello  ?  I  wish  I  could  feel  about  my  female 
as  Eaton  does.  To  me  it  's  Bouguereau  in  sculpture 
with  a  lot  of  soft  soap  and  dough  mixed  in.  I  heard 
the  Heroic  Symphony  the  other  night.  Great 
Caesar!  .  .  . 

St.-G. 

And  again : — 

My  dear  Gilder: 

Your  generous  present  I  found  when  I  got  home, 
yesterday  afternoon.  I  don't  think  you  can  realize 
what  a  pleasure  it  is  to  me  to  be  given  a  book.  No  gift 
is  so  welcome.  The  pleasure  is  all  the  stronger  perhaps 
for  the  faint  vein  of  bitterness  intertwined  in  it  by  the 
thought   that   my   education,   early   associations,   and 

284 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

strong  habits  of  life,  have  made  books  to  me  a  great, 
faintly-opened  life — 

Thank  you  sincerely  and  earnestly. 

Apart  from  an  account  of  his  work,  however,  and  from  a 
knowledge  of  the  men  who  were  working  about  him,  an  under- 
standing of  what  my  father  was  doing  at  this  time  is  best 
gained  from  the  following  letters.  The  first,  written  to  my 
mother,  illuminates  his  affection  for  his  father,  Bernard  Saint- 
Gaudens,  which  he  shared  deeply  with  his  brothers  Louis 
and  Andrew.  I  was  too  young  to  notice  the  extent  of  this 
love  during  Bernard  Saint-Gaudens'  life-time,  but  I  have  a 
most  vivid  recollection  of  the  blow  that  fell  upon  Augustus 
Saint-Gaudens  when  his  father  died.  For  he  took  me  that 
night  to  the  barnlike  Thirty-sixth  Street  studio  and  there, 
lighting  one  feeble  gas-jet,  walked  sobbing,  back  and  forth, 
in  and  out  of  the  black  shadows,  telling  to  my  young,  uncom- 
prehending ears  all  that  his  father  had  meant  to  him. 

He  writes: 

.  .  .  Father  came  in  to  see  us  day  before  yester- 
day and  we  went  there  this  morning.  Although 
stronger,  poor  old  man,  he  looks  very  badly  and  it 
sends  a  pang  through  me  every  time  I  see  him.  We 
have  decided  to  send  him  back  to  his  village.  He  is  al- 
ways talking  of  it.  William  will  gladly  take  charge  of 
him  on  the  Bordeaux  Line  to  Bordeaux,  and  we  will 
get  a  cousin  to  meet  him  there  to  take  him  to  the  village 
where  he  will  stay  as  long  as  he  cares  to,  and  a  desire  of 
his  life  will  be  satisfied.  He  proposes  paying  his  own 
fare  over,  and  they  will  probably  go  about  the  first  of 
September.     .     .     . 

On  other  occasions  as  well  he  wrote  my  mother: 

285 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

...  I  heard  the  "Heroic  Symphony"  by  Bee- 
thoven yesterday  evening  at  the  Academy  of  Music. 
Going  to  hear  that  music  is  as  if  there  were  no  photo- 
graphs or  engravings  or  reproductions  of  Michelangelo 
and  I  was  making  my  first  visit  to  the  Sistine 
Chapel.     .    .    . 

.  .  .  Started  to  go  to  bed  early  but  did  n't  put 
out  the  light  until  very  late  as  I  got  interested  reading 
one  of  Daudet's  novels.     .     .    . 

.  .  .  We  sat  in  Babb's  room  with  Wells  and 
George  Lathrop,  and  we  had  a  furious  art  discussion 
until  midnight.  I  was  up  at  seven,  and  I  am  at  work 
on  the  Gray  medallion  while  Foglio  is  working  on  the 
Schiff.  My  mind  is  made  up  to  go  next  Monday.  I 
will  stop  at  Newport  for  long  enough  to  stick  up  the 
Timothy  Brookes  medallion,  which  is  finished,  and  then 
go  right  on.     .     .     . 

.  .  .  Last  night  I  went  to  see  a  darkey  company 
play  Othello  seriously  and  it  was  one  of  the  funniest 
performances  I  have  ever  seen.  Every  time  Iago  ap- 
peared, disappeared,  moved  about,  or  uttered  a  word, 
there  was  wild  applause.  When  Othello  kissed  Des- 
demona,  "Oh  don't,"  and  kisses,  and  "Yum!  Yum!"  all 
over  the  house.  One  fellow  shouted,  "Hurrah  for 
Blaine!"  There  was  a  constant  uproar.  During  the 
fencing  the  fencers  were  told  not  to  hurt  one  another, 
and  so  on.  I  nearly  burst  laughing.  They  were  al- 
most white  negroes,  and  the  Othello  would  have  been  a 
good  actor  if  he  was  well  schooled.  He  was  quite 
dark.    .     .     . 

286 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

It  is  lonely  to-day  at  the  studio.  William  is  off,  and 
Louis  went  to  Stockbridge  for  a  day  or  two  by  the  eight 
A.  M.  train  to-day.  He  goes  to  work  on  the  Butler 
tablet,  and  is  frightened  out  of  his  wits  at  the  prospect 
of  meeting  the  Butler  family  and  the  consequent  social 
treatment  of  him.  Last  night,  after  supper,  we  went 
back  to  the  studio  to  get  an  address  for  Louis,  and 
walked  home,  eating  an  ice-cream  on  the  way  back. 
They  say  the  day  was  hot  here,  but  I  did  not  feel  it  or 
know  it,  except  when  I  went  out  to  dinner  at  noon. 

I  expect  that  will  be  the  experience  to-day.  The 
studio  has  been  very  endurable  up  to  yesterday  after- 
noon, when  about  five  o'clock  I  commenced  to  feel  un- 
comfortably warm.  I  quit  work  at  six  and  walked 
down  town,  and  it  was  very  hot  and  unbearable.  So  I 
ate  a  salad  and  some  oseille  at  a  French  restaurant 
where  I  tried  to  get  Babb  to  go  to  the  Battery  with 
me,  but  he  declined.  Then  I  took  the  cars  and  went 
down  most  of  the  way  and  walked  the  rest  right  on  to 
the  Battery.  It  was  cool,  but  there  were  about  40,000, 
000,000,000,000  people  there  trying  to  get  air 
too.     .     .     . 

Saint-Gaudens  was  far  from  being  a  facile  writer.  The  task 
of  completing  a  long  letter  always  remained  a  serious  one,  to 
be  entered  into  only  on  rare  occasions.  But  he  had  such  a 
love  for  the  charm  of  the  style  of  two  other  of  his  friends, 
Will  H.  Low's  in  English  and  Paul  Bion's  in  French,  that  he 
would  make  every  effort,  in  the  glad  knowledge  that  the  re- 
turn of  post  would  satisfy  his  labor  most  abundantly.  For 
about  twenty-five  years  or  more  his  correspondence  continued 

287 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

with  each  of  these  men.     At  this  time  he  was  writing  to  Low 
as  follows: 


Dear  Low: 

.  .  .  Dewing  has  read  your  letter,  as  well  as  Ma- 
dame Dewing.  And  Dewing  says  "Low  would  make 
a  sensation  if  he  went  into  literature,"  or  something  to 
that  effect.  Although  we  all  agree  with  him,  we  think 
you  are  good  enough  where  you  are  and  prefer  you 
should  remain  so  too.     .     .     . 

I  read  part  of  your  letter  yesterday  in  which  you 
mention  the  plan  of  going  to  Italy.  I  am  delighted. 
And  you  will  be  too.  Don't  fail  to  get  to  Rome  and 
Naples  if  only  for  a  few  days.  Venice,  of  course,  goes 
without  saying.  Take  Baedeker's  guide,  follow  its  sug- 
gestions, and  I  don't  think  you  will  regret  it;  I  mean 
the  practical  advice,  hotels,  &c.  If  you  go  to  Italy  and 
don't  see  the  Sistine  Chapel  you  will  be  neglected  by 
your  real  friend  here  on  your  return. 

Willie  MacMonnies  writes  me  in  very  complimen- 
tary terms  of  your  new  book.  And  Gamier  wrote  in 
remarkable  praise  of  the  "Lamia."  I  'm  glad  to  hear 
that  you  feel  your  new  work  is  better.  Dewing  and 
Faxon  are  the  only  ones  who  have  read  your  letter  as 
yet,  but  I  will  mail  it  to-morrow  to  the  great  Kenyon 
Cox,  who  will  give  it  to  Eaton. 

Cox  has  been  quite  sick  but  has  pulled  through  all 
right.  I  must  confess  that,  although  I  think  some  of 
the  things  in  his  work  are  very  strong  (in  fact  they  are 
all  good,  some  remarkably  so),  there  is  a  lack  of  unity 

288 


V         f 

i 

I 


*i 


\ 


KTKAIT  IN   HAS  RELIKF  OK  A  YOL'NO  LADY 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

in  them  that  troubles  me  seriously.  It  gives  the  im- 
pression of  a  jumbled-up  work.  One  drawing  recalls 
Baudry  in  a  manner  not  to  be  ashamed  of,  others  like- 
wise run  the  gamut  of  most  of  the  good  men,  ancient 
and  modern.  ...  I  have  told  him  so  and  he  says  he 
can't  help  it.  .  .  .  However,  you  know  what  a 
cross-grained  critic  I  can  be  at  times,  and  that  is  prob- 
ably the  mood  I  am  in  now.  I  hope  he  will  have  great 
success.     .     .     . 

You  know,  of  course,  how  interested  we  all  were  in 
your  report  of  the  Salon  &c,  &c,  and  what  you  say  of 
Rodin.  Willie  writes  in  the  same  enthusiastic  praise, 
and  Bion,  I  think,  too,  all  of  which  makes  me  fret  at 
my  detention  here  this  summer.  I  thank  you  for  the 
photographs  and  the  cast  you  propose  bringing  over  or 
sending  to  me.     .     .     . 

Faxon  is  now  with  us.  What  an  attractive  fellow  he 
is!  He  will  stay  about  a  week,  and  then  Wells,  the 
spitfire,  will  come  on  the  scene,  leave  all  his  malicious- 
ness off  as  he  enters  the  house,  as  a  turtle  would  its 
shell,  and  become  one  of  the  most  companionable  of 
men.     .     .     . 

Next  I  translate  one  of  Saint-Gaudens'  letters  written  in 
French  to  Bion: 

148  West  Thirty-sixth  Street,  December  3,  1892. 
My  Old  Fellow: 

It  is  said  that  with  perseverance  and  faith  a  man  can 
bore  through  a  mountain  with  a  boiled  carrot.  So  with 
the  perseverance  of  your  correspondence  you  have  ac- 

291 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

complished  a  miracle  in  turning  me  into  a  correspond- 
ent. The  transformation  happened  sometime  ago; 
and  from  a  task  which  I  used  to  fear  as  the  devil  fears 
holy  water,  you  have  made  this  an  entertainment  to 
which  I  lend  myself  with  pleasure. 

The  opportunity  presents  itself  to-day,  Sunday,  be- 
cause my  negro  model  has  given  me  the  slip,  and  the 
quiet  of  the  studio,  the  bright  and  cold  weather  out- 
doors, and  the  gentle  warmth  of  the  room,  invited  me 
to  gossip  with  you. 

The  weather  is  so  exhilarating  that  I  find  it  impos- 
sible to  believe  or  to  realize  what  you  write  me  about 
Shiff.  But  the  inevitable  is  there,  whether  drowned 
in  a  flood  of  sunshine  which  intoxicates  us,  or  recalled 
to  our  minds  by  the  gloom  of  bad  weather.  I  am  wait- 
ing in  anxious  impatience  for  your  next  letter,  in  my 
hope  that  he  is  not  as  sick  as  he  seems  to  be  to  you. 
We  red-haired  fellows  make  a  big  fuss  over  a  small 
hurt,  and  I  am  counting  on  that  to  hear  better  news 
about  my  friend. 

Life  is  a  battle,  bitter  or  friendly,  but  nevertheless  a 
battle,  and  to  my  mind  a  wholesome  one.  In  this 
struggle  I  have  lost  some  good  plays  by  showing  my 
hand,  but  on  growing  older,  with  perspicacity  and  my 
forefinger  alongside  my  nose,  I  have  said  to  myself, 
"Old  man,  hide  your  devices  or  else  others  more  light- 
fingered  will  carry  off  the  fruits  of  Victory.  You  will 
be  forced  to  furl  the  fine  banner  which  you  had  pre- 
pared to  fling  to  the  breeze,  and  the  pleasure  of  the 
fight  will  be  lost  to  you."     I  do  not  mean  that  my  treas- 

292 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

ures  have  been  stolen  from  me,  only  unconsciously 
others  have  deprived  me  of  their  luster.  Rest  assured 
I  am  not  harboring  any  resentment,  but  this  is  one  of 
the  reasons  I  have  had  for  not  showing  my  work  to 
X.  .  .  .  The  other  reason  is  that  I  have  a  very 
clear  idea  of  what  I  want  to  do,  and  a  criticism  from 
him  would  distract  me  seriously.  That  is  probably  the 
true  basis  of  my  behavior.  You  know  the  high  opinion 
I  have  of  his  genius.  But  he  is  young  and  a  radical, 
violent  and  battling.  He  would  let  escape  him  some 
thoughtless  word  to  which  I  would  give  an  unmerited 
importance,  in  spite  of  myself.  And  even  though  I 
understood  all  that,  I  would  find  myself,  against  my 
will,  following  some  direction  which  he  had  indicated. 
I  know  myself  and  I  am  afraid  of  myself,  for  which 
reason  my  chosen  ones  are  those  to  whom  I  wish  to 
lend  my  ear.  And  you,  you  species  of  Yankee,  are 
just  the  man  to  whom  I  give  the  most  weight.  Now 
do  you  think  it  at  all  necessary  for  me  to  reply  to  your 
letter  in  which  you  express  some  doubt  as  to  the  wis- 
dom of  your  criticism  of  what  I  am  trying  to  do?  Once 
for  all,  I  say  to  you  that  your  criticism  is  to  me  as  the 
apple  of  my  eye.  What  you  have  to  tell  me  is  of  the 
greatest  value  to  me.  Your  point  of  view,  it  seems  to 
me,  resembles  my  own,  that  of  a  man  ripe  in  thought 
and  reflection  and  not  given  to  scattering  fireworks  of 
words  at  random,  at  the  risk  of  knocking  out  the  above 
mentioned  apple  of  the  eye. 

Say  not  another  word  on  that  subject.     Scold  me 
and  criticize  me  when  you  will. 

293 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Finally,  in  the  following  series  of  letters  to  my  mother  is 
beyond  doubt  the  most  detailed  picture  my  father  ever  drew 
of  his  holiday  frame  of  mind.  They  describe  his  eventful 
pleasure- jaunt  through  the  southwestern  portion  of  the  United 
States,  taken  with  Stanford  White. 

Friday,  August  31st,  '83. 

.  .  .  We  arrived  at  Engle,  New  Mexico,  at  three 
forty-five.  White's  brother  met  us  at  the  train,  and  as 
the  coach  which  left  for  his  region  did  not  go  before 
seven  A.  M.,  we  had  four  hours.  White  and  his 
brother  were  taken  to  one  room.  The  proprietor,  in  a 
gruff  way,  opened  a  door  and  introduced  me  into  an- 
other, a  small  chamber  smelling  of  kerosene,  with  two 
beds,  on  one  of  which  lay  two  men,  one  inside  the  sheets, 
one  on  the  blankets.  I  lay  on  top  of  the  other  bed, 
doing  as  my  companion  did,  taking  off  only  my  coat, 
pantaloons,  and  shoes. 

I  did  n't  sleep,  as  for  two  days  I  had  seen  nothing 
but  rough  men  with  knives  and  revolvers  around  their 
waists  and  I  knew  that  this  was  an  "irresponsible  city" 
— that 's  what  they  call  them  here — with  its  four  shant- 
ies and  hotel.  Also  the  two  men  tossed  a  good  deal, 
and  I  heard  various  noises  as  I  half-dozed.  Gradually 
a  faint  light  on  the  window-sill  showed  dawn.  Then  I 
dozed  a  little  more,  dimly  conscious  of  some  kind  of  a 
shaking  of  chains.  Then  came  another  quiet  spell,  then 
a  slight  rushing  sound  with  a  little  feeling  that  some- 
thing was  going  on  in  the  yard.  Then  out  of  the  still- 
ness rose  a  female  voice:     "John,  the  store  is  on  fire!" 

A  glance  at  the  window  showed  a  red  reflection,  and 

294 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

suddenly  the  three  of  us  were  tearing  on  our  clothes, 
without  saying  a  word,  and  rushing  out  to  find  the 
store  burning  furiously  within  thirty  feet  of  where  we 
were  sleeping.  It  was  a  strange,  weird  sight,  the  quiet 
night,  the  grand,  solemn  prairies,  the  faint  dawn,  the 
bright  stars,  and  this  great  piece  of  destruction  going 
on.  In  the  midst  of  it,  unexpectedly,  crack,  crack, 
crack,  went  shots ;  whereupon  the  owner  called  hoarsely 
to  the  stage-driver  who  was  approaching  the  fire,  "Don't 
go  near  it,  there  are  cartridges  and  two  kegs  of  gun- 
powder in  it!" 

So  away  blazed  the  cartridges  with  occasionally 
louder  and  smaller  reports,  while  we  few  men  in  the 
lurid  light  receded  little  by  little  until,  with  a  loud  re- 
port, the  gunpowder  exploded.  It  was  a  fine  entree 
for  me  into  the  Western  country.  The  giant  powder 
did  not  go  off  fortunately.  It  only  burned.  Other- 
wise there  would  have  been  a  terrific  explosion. 
Gradually  the  fire  died  down  and  we  got  some  break- 
fast, a  pretty  tough  one.  I  saw  a  couple  of  captured 
bears  which  explained  the  noise  I  heard  of  chains.  At 
seven  in  the  morning  we  were  off  on  the  four-horse 
stage. 

Beside  ourselves  there  were  two  Irish- Scotchmen,  in- 
terested in  some  mines  in  the  same  region,  other  miners, 
and  a  boy.  We  went  over  the  prairie  into  the  most 
God-forsaken  country  ever  seen,  past  Fort  MacRae, 
the  scene  of  Indian  massacres  which  might  have  been 
committed  yesterday,  so  terrible  looking  was  the  place. 
We  crossed  the  Rio  Grande  by  a  ford,  a  dirty  brown 

295 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

river,  drank  the  muddy  water,  and  changed  horses  at 
a  picturesque  Mexican  village,  where  we  had  dinner  at 
one  o'clock.  Then  we  abandoned  the  stage  and  got  on 
two  horses  and  a  mule  that  White's  brother  had  led  to 
the  place  two  days  before,  from  his  camp,  twenty-five 
miles  away.  Off  we  started  in  a  broiling  sun.  And 
in  those  twenty-five  miles  all  we  saw  was  one  Mexican 
boy,  down  in  a  gulch  with  two  dogs  and  with  his  re- 
volver. It  was  a  splendid  ride,  such  a  one  as  I  will 
never  forget!  White  showed  us  the  bones  of  a  horse 
shot  by  the  Indians  two  years  ago.  The  owner  and  his 
family  were  murdered  a  small  distance  farther  down 
the  gulch,  so  you  see  it  was  sensational.  Farther  on 
appeared  the  mountains.  We  went  up  and  down  gul- 
leys  and  finally  struck  water  at  the  foot  of  the  gorge 
where  the  mine  is.  We  were  late  and  we  urged  the 
animals  through  the  darkness,  trusting  to  them  for  the 
paths  while  toiling  on. 

"Hello,  Dick?"  called  a  voice  from  some  spot  we  were 
passing. 
'  "Yes?" 

"There  's  some  mail  for  you!" 

"I  '11  come  for  it  to-morrow,"  and  on  we  plunged 
again  for  another  hour,  till  finally  we  brought  up  in 
front  of  a  log  cabin,  White's  home.  We  lit  a  fire  in 
the  stove,  made  some  bread,  some  tea,  some  Liebig 
soup,  and,  in  a  little  while,  I  was  rolled  up  in  a  blanket 
in  a  kind  of  a  bunk,  with  White  likewise  over  me,  and 
Stan  on  the  floor. 

I  slept  like  a  rock.     In  the  morning  Dick  White 

296 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

made  some  breakfast,  coffee,  canned  peas,  flap- jacks, 
regular  camp  way  of  serving.  However,  we  relished 
what  there  was.  Some  jerked  venison,  of  a  deer  killed 
a  week  before,  tasted  like  a  salt  mine  and  felt  like  a 
rawhide.  We  practised  with  a  rifle  from  the  cabin 
door  to  the  hill  opposite,  and  after  a  while  went  to  the 
camp  further  up  the  gulch  to  see  four  fellows  who  are 
working  a  mine  together. 

They  had  a  log  and  mud  cabin  about  ten  feet  square. 
Two  were  at  work  in  the  mine  from  eight  A.  M.  to  four 
P.  M.  Then  they  came  back  and  the  other  two  went 
at  it  from  four  P.  M.  to  midnight.  They  were  typical 
miners.  We  were  taken  to  the  hole  they  had  dug  about 
one  hundred  feet  into  the  rock,  and  it  was  very  inter- 
esting. Then  we  visited  a  cave  where  the  Indians  had 
concealed  themselves,  and  saw  Dick  White's  mine,  too, 
the  same  as  the  others.  A  sanguine  crowd  they  are, 
hard-working,  hairy-mouthed,  and  bony-handed. 

At  five  o'clock,  one  of  them,  an  old  Tennessee  Con- 
federate Captain,  good-natured,  jolly,  and  whole- 
souled,  decided  to  come  with  us, — that  is  White,  his 
brother,  and  myself. 

So  we  piled  our  camp  necessities  into  a  little  wagon 
to  which  was  hitched  a  donkey  and  an  old  Indian  horse, 
and  off  we  went  over  rocks  and  rills  along  what  they 
called  a  road,  passing  through  the  beautiful  valley, 
Paloma,  which  was  a  great  Indian  camping-ground, 
where  we  were  shown  the  bones  of  horses  killed  in  the 
last  defeat  of  the  Indians.  Rotch,  the  Tennessean, 
had  taken  a  short-cut  on  his  mule,  and  we  agreed  to 

297 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

meet  him  at  the  junction.  Before  getting  there,  in 
the  dark,  we  suddenly  saw  arise  in  the  road  a  dark 
form. 

"A  bear!" 

Stan  jumped  off  the  back  of  the  wagon,  I  seized  the 
shotgun  and  got  off  the  front,  and,  at  the  moment,  we 
saw  a  big — mule — and  heard  Rotch  shout,  "Here  I 
am!"  We  went  on  a  little  further  and  camped  under  a 
big  pine  tree,  lit  a  fire,  made  batter-cakes,  drank  tea, 
sat  'round,  and  finally  rolled  ourselves  in  blankets  and 
went  to  sleep.  I  did  n't  sleep  much,  for  it  was  such  a 
novelty,  and  at  first  we  were  rained  on,  though  we 
did  n't  get  much  wet  by  the  shower. 

Dick  got  up  before  the  others,  after  I  had  asked  them 
how  much  longer  they  proposed  lying  there,  for  it 
wasn't  soft,  and  in  a  little  while  we  had  breakfast. 
The  Tennessean  went  to  shoot  deer  and  I  went  down 
after  quail. 

I  saw  none,  but  suddenly  I  heard  two  shots  in  quick 
succession.  Then,  after  a  moment,  up  on  the  hill  I  saw 
a  deer  rush  through  the  bushes,  and  I  changed  my  shot 
to  buckshot.  The  deer  disappeared.  Suddenly  he  ap- 
peared again  and  Rotch  shouted,  "There  he  comes, 
Saint-Gaudens !"  I  crouched.  But,  before  I  was  satis- 
fied with  my  deliberate  aim,  the  deer  saw  me  and  rushed 
off  in  another  direction,  across  the  valley  and  up  the 
hill  on  the  other  side.  That 's  the  way  I  did  n't  shoot 
a  deer. 

The  next  morning  we  started  at  seven  from  Chloride, 
a  regular  mining-camp,  on  the  same  stage  on  which 

298 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS  MODELING  A  BAS-RELIEF  OF  MRS.  CLEVELAND 

In  "The  Studio"  at  Marion,  Massachusetts,  summer  of  1887 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

we  had  come,  and  raced  away  through  the  country  at 
a  rapid  rate.  At  last,  when  we  were  going  up  hill,  I 
climbed  on  top  of  the  stage,  where  I  shortly  found  that 
the  handsome  driver  was  tearing  drunk.  Then  we 
whirled  down  a  hill,  and  several  times  we  were  within 
an  ace  of  being  thrown  over.  At  that  I  got  mad  and 
told  the  driver  that  I  wanted  him  to  use  more  caution. 
He  mumbled  something  and  quieted  down  a  little.  I 
asked  him  several  questions.  But  he  could  n't  seem  to 
grasp  my  meaning  and  gave  up  trying  to  understand 
after  a  few  faint  efforts.  The  farther  we  went  on  the 
drunker  he  appeared  to  get,  lapsing  into  the  same  con- 
dition in  regard  to  his  brake  that  he  was  in  in  regard  to 
my  questions.  The  idea  of  putting  on  the  brake  when 
we  went  down  a  sudden  hill,  and  letting  it  go  so  that 
the  four  poor  horses  might  get  headway  to  rush  up  the 
other  side,  was  too  much.  His  brain  would  arrive  at 
the  point  of  the  putting  on  brakes  just  as  the  necessity 
for  them  was  over.  So  he  constantly  applied  the 
brakes  with  a  dull  vigor  as  the  horses  went  up  the  hill. 
It  finally  mixed  him  up  completely  and  he  decided  it 
was  too  hard  work  thinking  about  it  and  the  best  way 
to  get  over  the  difficulty  was  to  keep  the  brake  on  all 
of  the  time.  Consequently  he  did  that,  until  the  jolt- 
ing of  the  stage  threw  his  foot  off  it.  Then  he  be- 
came reflective  until  we  finally  got  to  the  plains,  the 
horses  tearing  along  at  full  gallop.  Suddenly  he 
turned  to  me  saying,  "I  never  was  so  sleepy  in  all  my 
life,  would  n't  shu  like  to  try?"  and  put  the  reins  in 
my  hands.     I  took  them,  but  returned  them  almost  at 

301 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

once,  as  my  fingers  were  almost  torn  off  without  the 
gloves.    Whereupon  he  gave  me  the  gloves. 

Finally  we  got  to  the  relay,  somehow.  The  fellows 
inside  said  they  never  had  had  such  a  ride.  They  were 
bounced  all  over  the  stage,  all  over  one  another,  under 
the  seats,  half  out  of  the  window;  one  moment  hugging 
one  another  frantically,  the  next  disappearing  in  lumps 
in  the  corners.  I  had  my  jouncing,  too,  on  the  out- 
side, several  times  not  knowing  when  I  was  thrown 
from  the  box  whether  or  not  I  was  going  to  come  down 
on  the  driver's  head,  on  the  horse's  back,  or  out  on  the 
road.  But  I  was  comparatively  fortunate,  for  I  would 
land  within  a  foot  of  where  I  started  from.  Of  course 
there  were  iron  bars  and  nails  instead  of  the  cushion 
that  should  have  been  on  the  seat.  But  my  twenty- 
five-mile  horseback-ride  had  prepared  that  portion  of 
my  body  for  anything  that  might  happen.  We  made 
the  first  part  of  the  trip  in  just  half  the  schedule  time, 
so  you  can  fancy  what  happened. 

After  the  next  relay  had  been  made,  and  as  soon  as 
we  got  out  of  sight  of  the  village,  the  driver  again 
quietly  handed  me  the  reins  and  gloves,  saying  that  he 
"felt  sick  with  the  rheumatiz,  fever,  and  ague,"  and  sank 
into  the  big  box  under  the  seat.  So  for  the  next  twenty 
miles  White  and  two  others  discussed  "eternity"  in  the 
inside  of  the  coach, — the  driver  was  sound  asleep,  with 
his  head  in  a  hole  and  his  feet  upon  the  mail-bags, — 
while  I  drove  on  that  hot  afternoon  across  the  plains 
with  the  great  mountains  in  the  distance,  and  not  a  soul 
or  a  sign  of  lif  e  within  sight.     .     .     . 

302 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Palace  Hotel,  San  Francisco,  Sept.  3rd.,  1883. 
.  .  .  I  could  extract  nothing  from  the  postmaster 
at  Los  Angeles  yesterday,  although  I  was  certain  there 
was  something  from  you.  I  am  having  a  good  time, 
although  I  have  got  a  burnt  nose,  and  sore  lips,  a  black 
and  blue  shoulder  from  the  kicks  of  the  shotgun  trying 
to  shoot  that  deer,  sore  thighs  from  trying  to  hang  on 
to  a  ribby  horse  when  he  wanted  to  throw  me  off,  a 
tummy-ache  from  too  much  peaches,  and  other  things 
from  too  much  medicine  for  the  previous  trouble. 
.  .  .  I  carry  Pond's  Extract  for  my  lips  as  well  as 
the  rest  of  my  person.  Also  that  horseback  ride  was 
the  cause  of  my  drinking  water,  beer,  lemonade,  ginger 
ale,  two  bottles  of  soda  water,  one  with  brandy  in  it, 
sarsaparilla,  beer  and  finally  champagne  and  Apol- 
linaris,  four  quarts,  then  two  pints  of  iced  tea,  a  big 
glass  of  water,  and  ice-cream,  finishing  the  rest  of  the 
day  with  water  at  intervals,  and  dreaming  at 
night.     .     .     . 

And  on  another  day: 

At  half-past  five  the  stage  came  along  and  we  got 
into  the  uncomfortable  vehicle,  and  into  uncomfortable 
positions,  at  once.  There  was  a  fat  Irish  woman  with 
a  birdcage  on  one  side,  an  escaped  murderer  on  the 
other,  and  a  man  opposite  with  his  mouth  full  of  to- 
bacco juice  that  he  would  squirt  in  quarts  past  our 
faces  out  of  the  window!  It  soon  got  so  cool  that  we 
had  to  shut  the  awning,  whereupon  the  stench  was  such 

303 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

that  in  fifteen  minutes  we  were  all  asphyxiated  and  re- 
mained so,  rolling  around  like  logs,  all  the  night  long. 
At  daybreak  we  recovered  from  the  swoon.  The  fat 
woman  with  the  bird  had  disappeared  in  the  night,  and 
in  her  place  sat  another  assassin  with  more  tobacco 
juice.  We  had  twenty  minutes  for  breakfast  and  a 
kind  of  wash,  and  then  off  till  dinner-time,  when  we 
reached  a  dirty  Jew  place.  By  then  it  had  got  very 
warm.  After  dinner  we  went  off  again,  until,  about 
an  hour  out,  the  stage  broke  down.  Then  the  eleven 
passengers  all  piled  out,  and  immediately  went  to  work 
on  the  stage.  We  were  more  than  five  miles  from  any 
house,  so  it  was  do  or  die,  fix  the  old  stage  or  miss  the 
train.  After  much  profanity  and  heat  it  was  mended 
and  off  we  jounced  again.  In  another  hour  it  broke 
once  more.  Whereupon  we  repeated  the  piling  out, 
the  profanity,  and  at  last  made  a  final  definite  advance 
over  a  series  of  bumps,  until  at  one  o'clock  at  night  we 
arrived  at  the  railroad,  after  having  traveled  one  of 
the  gayest  old  corduroy  roads  ever  experienced  by 
mortal  man.  This  same  stage  and  driver  had  been 
robbed  on  this  same  road,  making  the  same  trip  just 
one  month  before.     .    .    . 

And  last  of  all: 

Tacoma,  September  14,  1883. 

•    .     .    Before  I  close,  I  must  not  forget  one  little 

incident  that  happened  way  back  in  my  journey.     The 

night  we  crossed  the  plains  of  Kansas  we  went  through 

the  gilt-edged  edition  of  Hell.     But  I  had  one  recom- 

304 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

pense.  The  sleeping-car  conductor,  after  hard  spell- 
ing, got  my  name.  "Why,  you  're  the  man  who  made 
that  great  statue  in  New  York?  Well  I  declare!  Al- 
low me  to  congratulate  you!" 

Then     a     squeeze     with     his    big    fist.     Such     is 
fame.     .    .    . 


305 


XI 

BY-ROADS 

1882-1889 

The  Sleight  of  Hand — The  Sunday  Concerts — Cornish,  New  Hamp- 
shire— The  First  Summer — The  Improvement  of  Home — Dewing, 
Brush  and  Others— The  "Single  Tax"— A  Trip  to  Europe. 

THE  Sunday  afternoon  concerts  I  have  already  men- 
tioned in  connection  with  Joseph  Wells  were  first  given 
in  Saint-Gaudens'  Thirty-sixth  Street  studio  during 
the  fall  of  1882.  Those  who  supported  the  Standard  Quar- 
tette at  the  outset,  besides  Wells  and  Lathrop  of  whom  my 
father  speaks  below,  were  Joseph  Evans,  Robert  Blum,  Stan- 
ford White,  Charles  F.  McKim,  Thomas  W.  Dewing,  George 
Fletcher  Babb,  Charles  O.  Brewster,  Richard  Watson  Gil- 
der, Louis  Saint-Gaudens,  and  others.  Later,  changes  came 
about  and  a  keg  of  beer  and  pipes  of  tobacco  were  intro- 
duced. The  Philharmonic  Quartet  took  up  the  perform- 
ances, playing  such  favorites  as  Mozart's  Quartet  D.  Minor, 
Schubert's  D.  Minor  Variations  and  Beethoven's  Quartet 
Op.  No.  1.  F.  Major.  It  was  then  that  these  Sunday  after- 
noons reached  their  greatest  success  and  that  invitations  to 
come  with  a  member  were  prized  to  such  an  extent  that  once, 
indeed,  even  Ellen  Terry  dared  to  break  the  taboo  and  to  re- 
main until  the  smoke  drove  her  away. 

As  time  went  by,  however,  the  literary  men  and  artists  who 
gathered  in  the  early  days  gave  way  to  a  group  of  million- 
aires. Besides,  since  the  studio  had  to  be  cleared  for  the  con- 
cert, my  father  found  that  he  spent  his  six  days  ordering  his 
workshop  with  a  view  to  the  seventh.  So  the  weekly  meetings 
there  were  ultimately  relinquished,  though  until  my  father's 

306 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

departure  for  Europe  in  1897  he  continued  to  have  performed 
each  year  a  memorial  concert  on  the  first  of  March,  the  date 
of  Wells'  birthday,  which  was  also  his  own. 

While  on  this  subject  of  music,  before  turning  to  my  father's 
text,  let  me  make  mention  of  the  other  type  of  this  art  that 
he  especially  loved,  the  opera,  to  which  he  went  whenever  oc- 
casion offered.  Faust,  Carmen,  Cavalleria  Rusticana,  Pag- 
liacci,  Don  Giovanni,  French  and  Italian  scores,  held  his  ears. 
Wagner  and  Wagner's  school  he  failed  to  understand.  He  de- 
manded melody  in  the  old-fashioned  sense  of  the  word. 

The  reminiscences  say: 

A  by-road  significant  in  my  New  York  life  I  en- 
tered at  this  time  in  company  with  Mr.  Joseph  M. 
Wells,  of  whom  and  of  whose  passion  for  music  I  have 
spoken.  He,  Francis  Lathrop,  another  lover  of  music, 
and  I  were  in  the  habit  of  going  to  a  little  beer  saloon 
opposite  Washington  Place  on  Broadway,  a  very  nar- 
row and  very  long  and  sad  spot,  where  the  habitues,  no 
matter  how  noisily  and  gaily  they  entered,  would  be 
oppressed  by  the  gloom  and  take  their  refreshment  in 
comparative  silence.  What  enticed  us  was  that,  be- 
sides the  beer,  there  was  played,  as  a  rule,  desultory 
music  on  the  violin  by  a  bald-headed  man  who  handled 
his  instrument  with  feeling,  on  the  clarinet  by  his  son 
who  blew  without  any,  and  on  the  piano  by  a  third  col- 
orless banging  performer;  with  the  especial  peculiarity 
that  every  now  and  then  the  selections  became  of  a 
character  distinctly  above  what  could  be  appreciated 
in  such  a  place. 

Besides  the  music,  too,  there  was  occasionally  some 
form  of  entertainment,  and  one  evening  we  were  put 

307 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

into  a  state  of  great  expectation  by  the  announcement 
that  Professor  "So  and  So"  would  give  a  "Sleight-of- 
Hand"  performance  at  nine  o'clock.  At  the  hour  ap- 
pointed, from  behind  a  screen  placed  anglewise  in  the 
corner,  appeared  the  prestidigitator.  He  first  carried 
out  a  light  table,  placed  it  on  a  little  platform  with 
great  affectation  of  daintiness  of  gesture,  passed  be- 
hind the  screen  three  or  four  times,  and  returned  at  last 
with  a  birdcage  containing  a  canary,  as  far  as  I  could 
make  out,  and  some  other  bit  of  paraphernalia.  Then, 
stepping  forward  with  a  wand  in  his  hand  and  with 
security  of  his  power  shining  in  his  face,  he  described 
how  at  the  word  "Three,"  something  would  happen, 
and  the  canary  would  fly  away  or — I  forget  what. 
With  great  precision  of  enunciation  he  then  raised  his 
hand  and  said,  "Ein, — Zwei, — Drei — " 

Nothing  occurred,  absolutely  nothing.  There  was  a 
strange  moment  of  hesitation.  Then  he  grasped  the 
cage,  disappeared  behind  the  screen,  remained  for  a 
few  moments,  appeared  again,  replaced  it  all  with  the 
the  same  dainty,  light  touch  shown  the  first  time. 

"Ein— Zwei— Drei!" 

Again  there  was  no  result  whatever.  The  cage,  bird, 
table,  and  all  remained  immovable  to  his  charm. 
Whereupon  with  one  headlong  rush  he  seized  the  cage 
and  table,  and  ended  his  performance  by  vanishing  him- 
self behind  the  screen. 

But  the  real  value  of  the  place  lay  in  the  music  of 
which  I  first  spoke.  For,  as  the  result  of  it,  we  en- 
gaged the  bald-headed  violinist  to  come  and  perform  in 

308 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

my  studio  on  Sunday.  At  the  outset  things  did  not 
work  well.  But  through  Wells'  enthusiasm  we  soon 
employed  the  Standard  Quartet  composed  of  Bergner, 
Schwartz,  Roebelin,  and  Brant,  and  organized  a  Club 
or  Society  which  would  defray  the  twenty-five  dollars 
expense  each  Sunday.  Thus  we  began  the  Smoking 
Concerts  which,  held  in  my  studio  twenty-four  years 
ago,  were  kept  up  subsequently  in  Mr.  Lathrop's 
studio  and  now  continue  in  Dr.  Knight's.  They  were 
delightful  affairs.  We  had  admirable  programs,  un- 
der free  and  easy  conditions,  and  excellent  effects, 
the  result  of  the  sounding-board  qualities  of  the  stu- 
dio. 

Now  let  me  turn  to  other  pleasures,  and  chief  among 
them  to  my  coming  in  1885  to  Cornish,  New  Hamp- 
shire, or  Windsor,  Vermont,  as  it  is  often  called,  since 
that  is  the  town  in  which  we  obtain  our  mail.  For  this 
coming  made  the  beginning  of  a  new  side  of  my  exist- 
ence. I  had  been  a  boy  of  the  streets  and  sidewalks 
all  my  life.  So,  hitherto,  although  no  one  could  have 
enjoyed  the  fields  and  woods  more  heartily  than  I 
when  I  was  in  them  for  a  few  days,  I  soon  tired,  and 
longed  for  my  four  walls  and  work.  But  during  this 
first  summer  in  the  country,  I  was  thirty-seven  at  the 
time,  it  dawned  upon  me  seriously  how  much  there  was 
outside  of  my  little  world. 

We  hit  upon  Cornish  because,  while  casting  about 
for  a  summer  residence,  Mr.  C.  C.  Beaman  told  me  that 
if  I  would  go  up  there  with  him,  he  had  an  old  house 
which  he  would  sell  me  for  what  he  paid  for  it,  five  hun- 

311 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

dred  dollars.  However,  all  this  side  of  life  was  so  sec- 
ondary to  my  work  at  that  time  that  I  refused  to  as- 
sume any  responsibility  of  the  kind,  insisting  that  I 
was  not  wealthy  enough  to  spend  that  amount.  Es- 
pecially was  this  feeling  active  when  I  first  caught  sight 
of  the  building  on  a  dark,  rainy  day  in  April,  for  then 
it  appeared  so  forbidding  and  relentless  that  one  might 
have  imagined  a  skeleton  half -hanging  out  of  the  win- 
dow, shrieking  and  dangling  in  the  gale,  with  the  sound 
of  clanking  bones.  I  was  for  fleeing  at  once  and  re- 
turning to  my  beloved  sidewalks  of  New  York.  But, 
as  Mrs.  Saint-Gaudens  saw  the  future  of  sunny  days 
that  would  follow,  she  detained  me  until  Mr.  Beaman 
agreed  to  rent  the  house  to  me  at  a  low  price  for  as 
long  as  I  wished. 

To  persuade  me  to  come,  Mr.  Beaman  had  said  that 
there  were  "plenty  of  Lincoln-shaped  men  up  there." 
He  was  right.  So  during  the  summer  of  my  arrival, 
and  in  the  one-hundred-year-old  barn  of  the  house,  I 
made  my  sketch  for  the  standing  Lincoln,  and  for  a 
seated  Lincoln  which  was  my  original  idea,  as  well  as 
another  sketch,  the  study  for  the  mural  monument  to 
Dr.  Bellows  in  All  Souls'  Church,  New  York,  and  com- 
pleted my  relief  of  the  children  of  Mr.  Jacob  H.  Schiff. 
I  had  several  assistants  with  me,  Mr.  Frederick  Mac- 
Monnies  and  Mr.  Philip  Martiny,  besides  my  brother 
Mr.  Louis  Saint-Gaudens,  and  we  worked  on  until 
November. 

I  have  just  spoken  of  my  "Schiff"  commission. 
Thereby  hangs  a  tale  of  what  almost  became  a  tragedy. 

312 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

There  is  a  large  Scotch  deer-hound  in  the  composition 
of  the  medallion.  I  bought  one  in  New  York  for  a 
model  and  brought  him  to  Windsor  to  leave  him  there 
while  I  went  down  to  New  York.  At  the  foot  of  the 
hill  on  which  my  house  stands,  Mr.  Chester  Pike  had  a 
horse-breediiig  farm,  and  every  day  at  dusk  his  head 
man,  Mr.  Barker,  was  in  the  habit  of  driving  a  great 
stallion  up  our  hill  for  exercise,  seated  in  one  of  those 
wagons  where  the  legs  of  the  driver  stretch  out  on 
each  side  of  the  horse's  rump.  As  he  drove  by  the 
house  one  evening,  Mr.  Staghound,  who  was  but  a  pup, 
rushed  out  at  the  horse  and,  in  one  moment,  horse,  rider 
and  buggy  were  mixed  up  in  indeterminable  confu- 
sion, the  wagon  a  wreck,  the  horse  rearing  and  plung- 
ing, Barker  on  the  ground,  and  the  dog  dancing  around 
in  great  joy  and  glee,  leaping  in  the  air  in  excitement 
and  delight,  barking,  "Hurrah!  Hurrah!  This  is  life! 
What  joy  it  is  to  come  to  the  country!" 

Mrs.  Saint- Gaudens  and  my  brother  rushed  out  and 
shouted  to  Barker  to  drop  the  reins  he  was  grasping  so 
tightly.  But  this  he  would  not  do  until  at  last  some 
blow  made  him  release  them.  Then  as  he  was  being 
carried  in,  covered  with  blood  and  dirt,  in  reply  to  the 
inquiry  as  to  why  he  held  to  the  animal,  he  said,  "I 
was  afraid  if  I  let  the  horse  go,  he  might  kill  somebody 
on  the  road."  Ever  since  I  have  touched  my  hat  to 
Barker,  a  man  of  the  right  stuff.  He  was  a  veteran  of 
the  Civil  War. 

As  for  the  stallion,  he  tore  down  the  road  for  two 
miles  with  the  shafts  burying  themselves  in  his  sides, 

313 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

until  he  came  to  the  bridge  which  crosses  the  river. 
There  he  halted,  and  was  walking  peacefully  across 
when  some  one  caught  him.  The  bridge  bears  a  sign 
which  reads:  "Walk  your  horses  or  pay  two  dollars 
fine." 

In  these  early  days,  too,  I  recall  another  impression  of 
a  very  different  nature,  made  deeply  upon  me  by  the 
pathetic  sight  of  the  abandoned  farms,  of  which  there 
were  so  many  in  this  part  of  the  world.  I  can  re- 
member, too,  a  visit  to  Cornish  Flat  in  order  to  see 
about  a  large  rock  which  Mr.  Beaman  and  I,  upon  our 
advice  being  asked,  had  recommended  for  use  as  a  sol- 
diers' monument  in  that  village.  This  rock  lay  on  the 
top  of  a  steep  hill.  So,  with  a  group  of  gay  men, 
we  climbed  into  a  wagon  one  beautiful  day  and  set 
out  to  look  at  the  stone.  We  formed  a  conglomerate 
crew,  garrulous  and  joyful  during  the  five  or  six  mile 
drive  to  this  place.  We  appeared  all  the  more  noisy 
in  contrast  to  the  taciturn,  swarthy  driver  who  guided 
the  team.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  we  arrived  at  the 
entrance  to  what  we  noticed  was  a  deserted  farm.  We 
climbed  by  it  over  gateways  and  fences  and  tramped 
across  a  field  filled  with  flowers.  Thence  we  struck  up 
the  hill  to  the  summit, .  where,  in  a  kind  of  a  hollow 
in  the  ground,  we  found  the  great  boulder. 

There  we  sat  and  chatted  and  discussed  how  many 
men's  lives  had  been  sacrificed  from  this  part  of  the 
country  to  the  event  which  this  stone  was  to  commemo- 
rate. One  guessed  a  certain  number,  one  another.  At 
the  end,  after  we  had  exhausted  all  our  conjectures,  our 

314 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

silent  driver,  who  was  perched  on  the  top  of  the  rock, 
said, 

"There  were  twenty-eight  men  died  from  this  here 
town." 

"What  do  yea  know  about  it?"  we  asked. 

"I  was  one  of  the  volunteers,"  he  said. 

We  turned  down  the  hill  and  entered  the  empty 
house.  The  doors  were  all  open,  everything  gone,  a 
picture  of  desolation  in  strange  contrast  with  the  glory 
of  the  fields  and  sun  and  skies  of  the  day.  Over  the 
fireplace  in  what  evidently  had  been  the  sitting-room, 
some  one  had  scratched  with  a  piece  of  charcoal,  "Good- 
by,  old  home."     We  came  out  and  went  away. 

So  much  for  the  first  summer.  But  as  the  experi- 
ment had  proved  so  successful,  I  had  done  such  a  lot 
of  work,  and  I  was  so  enchanted  with  the  life  and 
scenery,  I  told  Mr.  Beaman  that,  if  his  offer  was  still 
open,  I  would  purchase  the  place  under  the  conditions 
he  originally  stated.  He  replied  that  he  preferred  not, 
as  it  had  developed  in  a  way  far  beyond  his  expecta- 
tions, and  as  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  reserve  it  for 
his  children.  Instead  he  proposed  that  I  rent  it  for 
as  long  as  I  wished  on  the  conditions  first  named, 
which  were  most  liberal.  But  the  house  and  the  life 
attracted  me  until  I  soon  found  that  I  expended  on 
this  place,  which  was  not  mine,  every  dollar  I  earned, 
and  many  I  had  not  yet  earned,  whereas  all  of  my 
friends  who  had  followed  had  bought  their  homes  and 
surrounding  land.  So  I  explained  to  Mr.  Beaman 
that  I  could  not  continue  in  this  way,  and  that  he  must 

315 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

sell  to  me,  or  I  should  look  elsewhere  for  green  fields 
and  pastures  new.  The  result  was  that,  for  a  certain 
amount  and  a  bronze  portrait  of  Mr.  Beaman,  the 
property  came  to  me. 

As  I  have  said,  despite  its  reputation,  my  dwelling 
first  looked  more  as  if  it  had  been  abandoned  for  the 
murders  and  other  crimes  therein  committed  than  as  a 
home  wherein  to  live,  move,  and  have  one's  being.  For 
it  stood  out  bleak,  gaunt,  austere,  and  forbidding,  with- 
out a  trace  of  charm.  And  the  longer  I  stayed  in  it, 
the  more  its  Puritanical  austerity  irritated  me,  until  at 
last  I  begged  my  friend  Mr.  George  Fletcher  Babb, 
the  architect:  "For  mercy's  sake,  make  this  house 
smile,  or  I  shall  clear  out  and  go  elsewhere!" 

This  he  did  beautifully,  to  my  great  delight.  In- 
side he  held  to  the  ornament  of  one  or  two  modest  man- 
tels, which  seemed  pathetic  in  their  subdued  and 
gentle  attempt  at  beauty  in  the  grim  surroundings, 
while  outside,  as  our  idea  was  to  lower  and  spread  the 
building,  holding  it  down  to  the  ground,  so  to  speak, 
I  devised  the  wide  terrace  that  I  know  was  a  serious 
help  for,  before  its  construction,  you  stepped  straight 
from  the  barren  field  into  the  house.  As  it  is  now,  my 
friend,  Mr.  Edward  Simmons,  of  multitudinous  and 
witty  speeches,  declares  that  it  looks  like  an  austere, 
upright  New  England  farmer  with  a  new  set  of  false 
teeth,  while  a  friend  of  his  has  said:  "No,  it  strikes  me 
as  being  more  like  some  austere  and  recalcitrant  New 
England  old  maid  struggling  in  the  arms  of  a  Greek 
faun." 

316 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Later,  to  keep  up  this  standard  in  the  case  of  the  old 
barn,  where  I  had  made  the  sketch  for  the  Lincoln,  and 
which  had  become  so  dilapidated  that  it  threatened 
some  day  to  engulf  my  masterpieces  and  me  in  ruin,  I 
returned  to  Mr.  Babb  once  more  and  he  kindly  de- 
signed it  over.  Again  he  made  me  happy  in  the  fashion 
in  which  he  held  to  the  lines  of  the  original  barn  with 
the  development  of  the  pergola,  which  had  grown  from 
supports  of  rustic  pine  poles,  to  more  pretentious  col- 
umns of  Portland  cement. 

In  the  serious  light  that  things  take  as  I  grow  older, 
the  pell-mell  character  of  incidents  of  even  ten  or  fif- 
teen years  ago  strikes  me  as  strange  and  bewildering. 
It  was  not  long  after  our  coming  up  here  that  Mr. 
George  de  Forest  Brush,  the  painter,  decided  to  pass 
the  summer  near  us.  He  lived  with  Mrs.  Brush  in  an 
Indian  tepee  he  built  on  the  edge  of  our  woods,  near  a 
ravine,  about  five  hundred  yards  from  the  house;  for 
he  had  camped  with  the  Indians  for  years  and  knew 
their  habits. 

Also,  the  spring  following  my  arrival,  my  friend, 
Mr.  T.  W.  Dewing,  the  painter,  was  casting  about  for 
a  place  to  pass  the  summer,  when  I  told  him  of  a  cot- 
tage that  could  be  rented  from  Mr.  Beaman  about 
twenty  minutes'  walk  from  my  habitation.  Mr.  Dew- 
ing came.  He  saw.  He  remained.  And  from  that 
event  the  colony  developed,  it  being  far  more  from 
Mr.  Dewing's  statements  of  the  surrounding  beauty 
than  from  mine  that  others  joined  us.  The  year  after 
Mr.  Dewing's  appearance,  his  intimate,  Mr.  Henry 

317 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Oliver  Walker,  bought  land;  and  the  year  after  that 
Mr.  Walker's  friend,  Mr.  Charles  A.  Piatt,  joined 
him.  Mr.  Piatt  brought  Mr.  Stephen  Parrish,  and  so 
on,  until  now  there  are  many  families.  The  circle  has 
extended  beyond  the  range  even  of  my  acquaintance, 
to  say  nothing  of  friendship.  The  country  still  re- 
tains its  beauty,  though  its  secluded  charm  is  being 
swept  away  before  the  rushing  automobile,  the  uni- 
formed flunky,  the  butler,  and  the  accompanying  dress- 
coat. 

But  to  return  to  this  early  time,  one  cause  of  ever- 
recurring  excitement  to  us  was  Henry  George  and  his 
single  tax  theories  which  had  come  so  much  to  the 
front;  and  in  the  group  of  artists  and  litterateurs  to 
whom  I  belonged,  discussions  were  violent  pro  and  con. 
Mr.  Brush  stood  as  a  strong  Henry  George  man.  Mr. 
Dewing  became  violent  in  the  other  direction.  Mr. 
Brush  was  so  fond  of  Mr.  George  he  had  a  large  elec- 
tioneering portrait  of  him  stuck  up  in  his  tent.  Mr. 
Dewing  was  so  taken  by  the  romantic  quality  of  the 
tent  that  he  could  not  refrain  from  visiting  Mr.  Brush 
and  enjoying  its  strange  mixture  of  coziness,  indul- 
gence, and  wild  charm,  that  love  of  the  reversion  back  to 
primitive  things  that  we  all  seem  to  have.  But  the 
devil  of  it,  the  thorn  to  the  rose,  so  to  speak,  was  that 
Dewing  could  not  enjoy  the  tepee  without  being  forced 
at  the  same  time  to  face  the  infernal  portrait  of  Henry 
George,  which  poisoned  what  would  otherwise  have 
been  a  halcyon  summer. 

The  following  year  Brush  did  not  come  to  Cornish, 

318 


ORIGINAL  BARN  USED  AS  FIRST  STUDIO 


HOUSE  IN  CORNISH.  THE  FIRST  SUMMER 

l.ouis  Saint  Onudeiia,  Kredorirk  MacMonnles.  Homer  Saint  Gaudens, 
Mrs.  Saint  Gaudens,  Augustus  Saint  Gaudens 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

but  the  tepee  still  remained,  as  he  had  left  it,  for  the 
enjoyment  of  my  son  Homer.  So  it  was  arranged  one 
day  by  a  group  of  seven  or  eight  of  us  that  we  should 
have  a  picnic  at  the  tepee,  cook  our  own  meal  in  the 
tent  and  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  to  our  hearts'  con- 
tent. It  turned  out  to  be  dismal,  gray  weather,  but, 
nevertheless,  we  went  down  and  lit  the  fire,  whereupon 
I  believe  Dewing's  deep  design  showed  itself.  The 
unhappiness  of  the  previous  summer  had  so  embittered 
his  mind  that  the  destruction  of  the  object  that  caused 
it  was  the  only  thing  that  could  counterbalance  the  ex- 
perience. As  he  could  not  in  ordinary  cold  blood  come 
up  and  annihilate  this  place,  he  reasoned,  unconsciously, 
"If  I  can  get  all  these  chaps,  as  well  as  myself,  full  of 
fire-water,  nature  will  do  the  rest." 

He  was  right,  for  after  having  eaten  all  that  was 
proper  and  drunk  much  more  than  was  necessary,  we 
danced  in  glee  around  the  tent  in  which  blazed  the 
bivouac  fire.  Presently  one  demon  threw  some  object 
through  the  open  flap  on  the  fire,  which  increased  the 
conflagration  inside.  Then  another  fiend  added  a  part 
of  the  tent,  and  then  the  portrait  of  Henry  George,  and 
the  tepee  went  the  way  of  all  things.  Dewing  was  satis- 
fied, and  we  were  all  happy. 

But  the  end  was  still  to  come.  The  following  year 
Mr.  Babb,  while  visiting  us,  one  day  picked  up  among 
the  leaves  a  bit  of  the  canvas  which  had  escaped  the 
fire.  He  put  it  in  his  pocket  in  what  we  thought  a 
rather  mysterious  way,  though  we  said  nothing,  as  his 
ways  are  dark  nine- tenths  of  the  time.     That  night 

321 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

he  asked  for  a  needle  and  thread,  and  for  the  next  two 
or  three  afternoons  shut  himself  in  his  room,  locking 
the  door  so  that  we  could  make  out  nothing  as  to  the 
goings  on  behind  it.  The  single-tax  discussions  mean- 
while raged  violently  every  time  we  met  with  Dewing. 
Finally  Babb  appeared  at  lunch  with  several  little 
rosettes  in  his  hand,  most  carefully  fashioned  about  an 
inch  in  diameter,  with  a  solitary  tack  hanging  by  a 
string  from  their  centers. 

"Shall  we  go  see  Dewing  this  afternoon?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course,"  we  said,  and  the  single-tax  badges 
were  put  on  our  lapels  and  we  pranced  over  to  Dew- 
ing's,  to  his  great  consternation. 

He  attributed  this  deep-laid  scheme  to  me,  but  I  have 
not  the  extraordinary  ingenuity  of  my  architect  friend, 
nor  the  patience  to  execute  for  three  days  such  an  elab- 
orate piece  of  mechanism  for  a  joke. 

Elsewhere  I  have  spoken  of  how  Saint-Gaudens'  point  of 
view  regarding  early  days  was  occasionally  glossed  by  time. 
Here,  however,  the  situation  is  quite  different.  Both  in  detail 
and  sentiment,  his  account  of  Cornish  in  the  "eighties"  re- 
mains astonishingly  accurate.  And  as  I  was  able  to  show 
where  his  memory  was  somewhat  astray  in  earlier  instances,  at 
this  point  I  can  confirm  its  accuracy  with  one  of  his  char- 
acteristic letters  written  at  the  time  to  his  friend  Low: 

Windsor,  Vermont,  Sept.  16,  /85. 
Dear  Low: 

We  are  very  cozy  and  happy  here.  I  expect  to  re- 
main until  November  first,  and  I  am  very  contented  to 

322 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

do  so.  Wells  will  give  you  an  incoherent  idea  of  how 
I  am  situated,  and  I  wish  others  of  you  fellers  could  be 
up  here,  not  that  I  'm  lonely  but  that  I  think  it  would 
be  so  bully  for  you.  I  'm  feeling  as  if  I  ought  to  have 
a  little  pot  belly,  that  I  shall  become  interested  in 
horses  and  potatoes,  and  shall  ratisse  rnon  petit  navet 
regulairement  tout  les  mois  content  de  moimeme  et  de 
tout  le  nxonde,  and  have  aspirations,  if  I  was  in  France, 
to  be  conseiller  municipal  ou  maire.  This  is  really  a 
very  beautiful  country  and  I  certainly  do  not  tire  of  it. 
The  only  difficulty  is  that  I  don't  enjoy  it  enough.  I 
stick  to  the  studio  too  much.  However,  'nuff  said  on 
that  score. 

Dewing  is  doing  very  little  up  here.  It 's  amusing 
to  see  him  on  the  spot,  though,  for  he  is  blood  of  the 
blood  and  bone  of  the  bone  of  the  country.  He  falls 
right  into  everything  like  a  duck  into  water.  Very 
much  as  I  fancy  I  would  be  in  the  South  of  France  or 
Ireland.  .  .  .  He  has  a  charming  little  place,  much 
more  cozy  than  mine,  and  he  has  bought  it  by  making  a 
portrait  of  Mrs.  Beaman  in  payment.     .     .     . 

In  my  father's  text  he  writes  of  the  brief  trip  which  he 
took  to  Paris  in  1889.  This  was  the  only  occasion  on  which 
he  left  this  country  between  the  day  he  landed  here  in  1880 
and  his  departure  for  his  long  stay  in  Europe  in  1897. 
Throughout  all  that  time,  however,  he  yearly  talked  of  Paris, 
of  his  desire  to  be  there,  of  his  deeply  felt  need  of  seeing  what 
was  being  done  abroad  and  thereby  widening  his  artistic  hori- 
zon. So  nothing  shows  in  a  more  striking  manner  the  de- 
mands of  his  work  and  his  conscientious  efforts  to  meet  them 

323 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

than  this  fact,  that  in  the  period  of  seventeen  years  he  could 
only  snatch  these  few  weeks  for  his  vacation.     He  says: 

So  much  for  the  country,  but  since  I  have  wandered 
from  my  New  York  pavements,  let  me  speak  of  another 
experience  that  I  had  away  from  them  before  I  return 
to  their  limits;  an  experience  I  met  with  during  my 
1889  short  visit  to  Paris. 

I  was  there  but  two  weeks  and  was  desirous  of  re- 
turning in  what  measure  I  could  to  my  student  life 
and  environment,  and,  for  that  reason,  occupied  a  lit- 
tle box  of  a  room  that  MacMonnies  offered  to  me, 
fronting  on  a  charming  court  where  he  had  his  studio. 
The  first  day,  on  awakening,  I  turned  to  the  tiny  win- 
dow overlooking  the  little  garden  in  the  cool  gray  of 
the  morning.  Presently,  from  one  of  the  studio  doors 
which  opened  on  the  court,  an  old  chap  appeared  in 
his  dressing-gown,  peacefully  smoking  a  pipe.  He 
trudged  along  in  among  the  paths  over  to  one  particu- 
lar flower-bed  which  was  evidently  his  little  property, 
and  with  great  care  watered  the  flowers  with  a  diminu- 
tive watering-pot.  Soon  another  codger  appeared 
from  another  door,  in  trousers  and  slippers.  He  also 
fussed  and  shuffled  quietly  in  his  little  plot.  And  then 
a  third  came  from  the  other  end  of  the  garden,  with  a 
skull-cap  on.  This  one,  with  the  greatest  caution, 
mounted  a  little  step-ladder,  tying  here  and  cutting 
away  there,  among  his  plants,  while  the  others  raked 
away  in  the  earth  below  among  the  flowers,  and  mur- 
mured and  chatted  about  this  little  plant,  that  little 
flower,  this  bit  of  earth  and  so  on,  with  apparently  no 

324 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

other  thought  than  that  of  the  Greek  in  "Candide"  to 
"Cultivate  your  garden,"  the  blue  smoke  from  their 
pipes  of  peace  rising  philosophically  among  the  green- 
ery in  harmony  with  it  all.  These  were  the  Satanic 
comrades  of  my  youth  at  the  Beaux  Arts,  the  Devils 
who  made  me  bawl  the  Marseillaise  for  months,  and  it 
was  all  so  far  away  from  the  Hell's  Kitchen  of  Thirty- 
fourth  Street  and  Broadway  that  it  gave  me  much  to 
reflect  on. 

To  my  father's  mention  of  his  trip,  let  me  add  this  illumi- 
nating letter  to  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer,  which  he  wrote  to  her 
soon  after  his  return.  The  reader  cannot  help  but  notice 
how  strikingly  similar  is  the  picture  which  my  father  drew  of 
the  simple  withdrawn  neighborliness  of  a  certain  type  of 
Frenchman  to  the  description  in  the  reminiscences,  written 
about  twenty  years  later.  The  resemblance  shows  well  the 
consistent  manner  in  which  he  enjoyed  philosophizing  upon 
this  point  of  view.  For  he  had  so  vivid  an  understanding  of 
his  own  intense  nervous  energy  that  he  enjoyed  satirizing  both 
attitudes  by  comparing  them  with  one  another.     He  writes: 

148  West  Thirty-sixth  Street, 

Sept.  21,  1889. 
Dear  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer: 

.  .  .  If  I  remember  well,  you  are  about  leaving 
Paris,  and  I  'm  curious  to  know  your  impression.  The 
impressions  of  my  trip  abroad  were  the  Homeric, 
Greek  character  that  there  was  in  the  way  the  steamer 
first  rose  on  the  waves  in  the  bright  sun  on  leaving 
Sandy  Hook;  my  enjoyment  of  the  ocean  for  the  first 
time;  the  glorious  Cornwall  Coast  with  the  sun  rising 
*         325 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

on  it;  my  discoveries  of  the  charm  of  English  scenery 
between  Southampton  and  London;  the  impression  of 
strength  in  London;  the  great  City  of  Paris,  its  ex- 
traordinary monumental  largeness ;  the  Frenchman  with 
his  little  garden;  the  man  of  fifty  who  contents  him- 
self with  shuffling  in  his  slippers  into  his  garden  in  the 
morning,  cutting  off  the  dead  leaves  of  the  geranium 
and  showing  to  another  bald-headed- philosophic  artist 
the  gentil  petit  plant;  the  welcome  of  my  friends;  the 
wonderful  fete  success  of  the  exposition.  About  the 
art,  my  impressions  are  too  complex  and  result  in  so 
much  vanity  that  I  '11  modestly  refrain.    .    .    . 


326 


XII 
THE  SHAW 

1881-1897 

Richardson's  Respect  for  Saint-Gaudens — Richardson's  Personality — 
The  Shaw  Commission — Negro  Models — Bohutinsky  and  the 
Negro — Studio  Rages — Technical  Difficulties — Concentrated  Work 
— A  Letter  from  Bion — A  Letter  to  Gilder. 

NOW  from  an  attempt  to  picture  my  father's  habits  of 
life  during  the  long  New  York  period,  I  turn  to  the 
work  which  he  produced  at  the  time.  It  is  strange 
that  the  most  important  of  all  the  commissions,  the  one  to  which 
he  clung  until  virtually  the  end  of  his  stay  in  the  city,  came 
to  him  almost  at  the  outset.  Also  it  would  seem  strange  that 
a  man  of  the  reputation  of  the  architect,  H.  H.  Richardson, 
should  suggest  giving  such  a  serious  task  as  the  Shaw  to  so 
young  a  sculptor  as  Saint-Gaudens,  were  it  not  for  the  repu- 
tation my  father  had  already  made  with  the  Farragut  as  well 
as  for  another  reason  well  explained  by  the  architect,  Mr. 
Daniel  H.  Burnham,  who  has  written  me: 

"When  H.  H.  Richardson,  the  architect,  was  designing  the 
Alleghany  County  Court  House  he  had  made  a  large  number 
of  sketches  of  the  great  tower.  Being  uncertain  which  of 
them  would  be  best  to  adopt,  he  wired  your  father  to  come 
to  Brookline,  Massachusetts,  to  give  his  opinion.  This  your 
father  did,  and,  as  I  remember,  his  decision  was  adopted  by 
the  architect.  Mr.  Richardson  related  the  incident  to  me,  say- 
ing that  he  had  more  confidence  in  your  father's  opinion  re- 
garding mass  and  outline  than  that  of  any  other  man.  Your 
father  seemed  to  be  able  to  pick  out  the  best  instinctively." 

My  father  says  of  his  meeting  with  Mr.  Richardson  and 
of  the  Shaw: 

327 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

To  go  back  to  my  work,  after  a  short  stay  at  the 
Sherwood,  1  took  the  studio  at  148  West  Thirty-sixth 
Street  which  I  have  already  mentioned.  This  build- 
ing I  originally  hired  for  five  years,  though  I  was  des- 
tined to  remain  there  for  fifteen.  It  was  a  low,  paint- 
er's supply-shed,  which  I  virtually  filled  out  and  re- 
built. Strangely  enough,  I  had  scarcely  moved  into 
it  when,  during  a  visit  to  Boston,  I  renewed  my  ac- 
quaintance with  the  man  who  was  largely  instrumental 
in  my  obtaining  the  one  piece  of  work  which  remained 
in  that  studio  through  almost  my  whole  stay.  The 
man  was  the  architect,  Mr.  H.  H.  Richardson,  the 
work  the  Shaw  relief. 

Richardson  was  an  extraordinary  man,  and  it  would 
require  a  Rabelais  to  do  justice  to  his  unusual  power 
and  character.  He  had  an  enormous  girth,  and  a  halt 
in  his  speech,  which  made  the  Words  that  followed  come 
out  like  a  series  of  explosions.  The  walls  of  his  dining- 
room  he  had  painted  blood-red.  It  had  a  low  ceiling 
and  a  magnificent  oval,  black-oak  table.  To  dine  with 
him,  with  his  round-faced,  expectant  children  sitting 
about  the  table,  and  charming  Mrs.  Richardson  oppo- 
site, furnished  the  guest  with  a  picture  and  an  honor 
not  to  be  forgotten.  Richardson  wore  a  brilliant  yel- 
low waistcoat,  and  his  appetite  was  in  full  harmony 
with  his  proportions.  I  have  been  told  that,  although 
afflicted  with  a  trouble  for  which  he  was  absolutely  pro- 
hibited stimulants,  he  once  drank  a  quart  of  black 
coffee  when  on  his  way  to  Pittsburgh,  in  order  to  be 
in  good  condition  when  he  met  the  committee  to  ar- 

328 


VARIOUS  SKETCHES  I-'OR  THE  SHAW  MEMORIAL 


FACSIMILE  OK  A  MAM  SCRIPT  SENTIMENT  THAT  AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 
SET  AS  HIS  STANDARD 

Thin  wrap  uf  In.s  writing  was  liiund  turning  utlu-r  uaucr*  ii|h>ii  his  .h«k  nut  long  unYr  liis  death 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

range  for  the  building  of  that  masterpiece,  the  jail  and 
court  house.  At  any  rate,  whenever  I  visited  Brook- 
line,  where  he  lived,  he  would  say  before  dinner: 

"S-S-Saint-Gaudens,  ordinarily  I  lead  a  life  of  a-ab- 
stinence,  but  to-night  I  am  going  to  break  my  rule  to 
celebrate  your  visit,  you  come  so  rarely." 

He  would  thereupon  order  a  magnum  of  champagne, 
which,  as  none  of  the  family  drank  it,  had  to  be  finished 
by  him  and  me.  Unfortunately,  I  am  very  moderate 
in  such  matters,  and  the  result  was  the  consumption  of 
virtually  the  whole  magnum  by  my  good  friend.  This 
had  to  be  accompanied  by  cheese,  which  was  also  pro- 
scribed by  the  doctor,  and  of  this  he  ate  enormous  quan- 
tities. The  proceeding  doubtless  occurred  every  night, 
as  he  always  arranged  to  bring  home  a  guest. 

Then,  after  a  little,  I  began  to  see  the  architect  from 
time  to  time  in  my  studio.  For  as  he  passed  to  and 
fro  in  his  Pittsburgh  work  he  invariably  stopped  over 
night  in  New  York  to  talk  with  La  Farge.  He 
was  frequently  accompanied  by  Phillips  Brooks  or  Mr. 
Edward  Hooper,  or  both.  So  in  this  way  I  saw 
Brooks  on  some  eight  or  ten  occasions,  and  subsequently 
now  and  then  during  my  visits  to  Boston,  though  at 
that  time  never  dreaming  of  the  monument  to  him  I 
was  to  model  so  long  after.  I  was  told  the  other  day 
that  he  related  with  much  enjoyment  a  story  of  a  visit 
he  made  to  the  Boston  Museum  of  Fine  Arts,  where  he 
found  me  absorbed  before  the  cast  of  a  Greek  seat  in  the 
theater  at  Athens.  He  passed  me  by  without  my  notic- 
ing him,  and  after  having  been  around  the  Museum  he 

331 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

came  back  and  found  me  in  the  same  place  and  still  as 
oblivious  to  his  passage  as  before.  I  was  studying 
material  for  the  chair  that  is  back  of  the  figure  of  Lin- 
coln. 

Mr.  Richardson  was  also  a  great  friend  of  Messrs. 
Atkinson,  Lee  and  Higginson.  Consequently  it  was  at 
his  suggestion,  if  my  memory  serves  me  aright,  that  they 
determined  to  see  whether  it  was  not  possible  to  have 
me  execute  the  monument  to  Colonel  Robert  Gould 
Shaw,  which  had  been  proposed  but  abandoned.  They 
had  about  fifteen  thousand  dollars,  and  I  was  engaged 
to  complete  it  for  that  sum,  since  I,  like  most  sculptors 
at  the  beginning  of  their  careers,  felt  that  by  hook  or 
crook  I  must  do  an  equestrian  statue,  and  that  here  I 
had  found  my  opportunity.  Therefore  I  proceeded 
with  this  theory  until  the  Shaw  family  objected  on  the 
ground  that,  although  Shaw  was  of  a  noble  type,  as 
noble  as  any,  still  he  had  not  been  a  great  commander, 
and  only  men  of  the  highest  rank  should  be  so  hon- 
ored. In  fact,  it  seemed  pretentious.  Accordingly, 
in  casting  about  for  some  manner  of  reconciling  my  de- 
sire with  their  ideas,  I  fell  upon  a  plan  of  associating 
him  directly  with  his  troops  in  a  bas-relief,  and  thereby 
reducing  his  importance.  I  made  a  sketch  showing  this 
scheme,  which  was  consumed  in  the  fire,  and  the  monu- 
ment as  it  now  stands  is  virtually  what  I  indicated.  I 
began  work  on  it  at  once,  and  soon  it  took  up  the  en- 
tire width  of  the  studio,  as  it  stood  about  two-thirds  of 
the  way  back  from  the  street,  with  behind  it  a  plat- 
form about  eight  feet  high,  on  which  I  placed  what- 

332 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

ever  statue  I  had  to  do  that  would  ultimately  be  on  a 
pedestal. 

In  justice  to  myself  I  must  say  here  that  from  the 
low-relief  I  proposed  making  when  I  undertook  the 
Shaw  commission,  a  relief  that  reasonably  could  be  fin- 
ished for  the  limited  sum  at  the  command  of  the  com- 
mittee, I,  through  my  extreme  interest  in  it  and  its 
opportunity,  increased  the  conception  until  the  rider 
grew  almost  to  a  statue  in  the  round  and  the  negroes 
assumed  far  more  importance  than  I  had  originally  in- 
tended. Hence  the  monument,  developing  in  this  way 
infinitely  beyond  what  could  be  paid  for,  became  a  labor 
of  love,  and  lessened  my  hesitation  in  setting  it  aside 
at  times  to  make  way  for  more  lucrative  commissions, 
commissions  that  would  reimburse  me  for  the  pleasure 
and  time  I  was  devoting  to  this. 

The  models  I  used  for  my  task,  a  horse  and  count- 
less negroes,  all  furnished  me  with  the  greatest  amuse- 
ment. The  horse  was  a  gray  animal  which  I  bought 
especially  for  this  relief.  I  used  to  keep  him  in  an  ad- 
joining stable  and,  at  the  end  of  the  day,  ride  him  in 
the  park  for  exercise,  thereby  accomplishing  a  double 
purpose.  He  died  ultimately  of  pneumonia  contracted 
from  a  cast  I  made  of  him,  and  I  finished  my  work  with 
a  beautiful  sorrel  I  hired  at  the  New  York  Riding 
Club. 

The  darkeys  were  more  exciting  in  the  entertain- 
ment they  furnished.  In  the  beginning,  when  I  met  a 
colored  man  of  whom  I  thought  well,  I  would  approach 
him  politely,  with  evident  signs  of  embarrassment,  and, 

333 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

after  hemming  and  hawing,  I  would  explain  that  I  was 
a  picture-maker  who  wanted  to  take  his  picture  and 
that  if  he  would  come  along  with  me  I  would  do  it  for 
nothing.  Any  one  who  knows  the  negro  of  that  class 
can  readily  understand  what  followed.  They  would 
look  at  me  suspiciously.  Some  would  accompany  me 
part  of  the  way  and  suddenly  go  off.  Others  would 
refuse  altogether.  A  few  would  follow  me  as  far  as 
the  door  and  then  leave.  One  I  remember  saying  as 
we  reached  my  threshold:  "You  don't  kotch  me  in  dat 
place !"  while  those  that  I  did  succeed  in  trapping, 
trembled  and  perspired  in  utter  terror  as  I  stood  them 
up  with  guns  over  their  shoulders  and  caps  on  their 
heads.  At  last  an  intelligent  chap  told  me  that  no 
doubt  they  feared  I  was  a  physician  trying  to  lure  them 
to  their  death  and  to  cut  them  up  for  anatomical  pur- 
poses, and  that  their  terror  was  augmented  by  seeing 
plaster  heads,  painted  a  brown  color,  lying  about.  So, 
following  his  advice  after  that  when  I  desired  a  man,  I 
obtained  better  results  by  simply  saying:  "Do  you 
want  a  job?"  And  upon  his  affirmative  reply,  by  add- 
ing: "Well,  come  along  with  me.  I  will  give  you  one." 
But  I  had  little  real  success  until  I  found  a  colored  man 
to  whom  I  promised  twenty-five  cents  for  every  negro 
he  would  bring  me  that  I  could  use.  The  following 
day  the  place  was  packed  with  them,  and  I  had  not  only 
a  great  choice,  but  endless  trouble  in  getting  rid  of 
them  and  stopping  their  besieging  the  studio. 

There  were  some  amusing  liars  among  them.     Sev- 
eral, born  since  the  war,  who  did  not  know  how  to  hold 

334 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

a  gun,  described  to  me  in  detail  the  battle  of  Fort 
Wagner  and  their  part  in  it.  They  ranged  in  char- 
acter from  a  gentle  Bahama  Islander  to  a  drummer-boy 
who,  while  posing  for  the  figure  in  the  foreground,  told 
me  how  he  had  just  been  released  from  prison,  where 
he  had  gone  for  cutting  his  brother  with  a  razor.  On 
the  whole,  however,  they  are  very  likable,  with  their 
soft  voices  and  imaginative,  though  simple,  minds.  I 
modeled  about  forty  heads  from  them,  of  which  I  se- 
lected the  sixteen  that  are  visible  on  the  relief.  Some 
heads  that  were  very  good  I  rejected,  because  for  one 
reason  or  another  they  did  not  look  well  in  the  place. 

My  struggles  with  these  models  always  brings  inti- 
mately to  my  mind  a  studio  man  I  employed  at  the 
time,  a  Pole,  Bohutinsky  by  name.  He  was  of  flabby 
construction,  but  came  to  me  with  a  letter  of  recom- 
mendation from  Judge  Tourgee,  author  of  "A  Fool's 
Errand."  He  did  the  work  fairly  well,  though  troub- 
ling me  with  his  extraordinary  diffidence.  He  must 
have  been  most  abominably  treated  while  abroad,  for 
he  never  spoke  to  me  without  showing  signs  of  terror, 
as  if  the  next  moment  might  see  his  head  cut  off  for 
his  presumption. 

At  that  time  the  Shaw  monument  extended  from 
wall  to  wall  across  the  center  of  the  studio,  so  the  only 
means  of  communication  with  the  scaffolding  in  the 
rear  of  the  building  was  by  bending  under  the  relief 
and  climbing  up  a  step-ladder.  One  miserable  day  I 
was  working  on  the  platform  there  at  Mr.  Henry 
Adams'  Rock  Creek  Cemetery  figure,  with  Mr.  T.  W. 

335 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Dewing  seated  quietly  smoking  beside  the  posing  model 
and  chatting  with  me,  when  there  developed  the  crisis 
of  all  Bohutinsky's  fears.  Previously  I  had  been  so 
much  bothered  by  the  interruptions  of  the  door-bell  that 
I  had  warned  him  that  under  no  condition  was  any- 
body to  be  let  in.  Therefore,  when,  after  one  of  the 
rings,  I  heard  a  prolonged  whispering  at  the  other  end 
of  the  studio,  and  presently  saw  Bohutinsky  duck  down 
under  the  "Shaw"  and  appear  below,  I  was  ready  for 
him. 

"Did  n't  I  explain  to  you  that  I  was  to  see  nobody?" 
I  shouted.  "I  will  be  left  in  peace!  You  go  back  and 
tell  that  man  I  am  not  in,  or  anything  you  please,  but 
leave  me  alone!" 

He  ducked,  disappeared,  and  after  time  enough  for 
him  to  go  to  the  street  door,  one  hundred  feet  away, 
the  muttering  was  repeated. 

Then  again  he  bobbed  up  and  said:  "Mr.  S-S-Saint- 
Gaudens,  this  p-person  says  he  absolutely  m-must  see 
you.  That  it  is  necessary  and  that  he  cannot  leave 
without  doing  so." 

I  shouted:  "You  tell  that  man  to  get  out  of  here! 
I  will  see  no  one!  Go  away  from  me!  Don't  return. 
Can  I  have  no  peace  in  this  blasted  place?" 

Once  more,  after  the  scarcely  breathed  conversation, 
came  the  third  appearance  of  Bohutinsky. 

"Mr.  S-S-Saint-Gaudens,  he  says — " 

"Is  he  still  there?"  I  roared. 

"Y-Y-Yes,  sir." 

Bohutinsky  was  trembling  like  a  leaf  and  ready  to 

336 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

fall,  while  I,  my  wrath  growing  as  I  swore,  hurled  pro- 
fanity through  the  three-foot  space  over  the  top  of  the 
Shaw  at  the  intruder  by  the  entrance. 

"I  '11  kick  him  out !"  I  cried,  looking  around  for 
something  to  annihilate  him  with.  Dewing  and  the 
model  caught  hold  of  me,  begging  me  to  stop  and  do 
nothing  rash.  But  I  tore  down,  bobbed  under  the 
Shaw  monument,  and  rushed  over  to  the  corridor. 

There  I  found  a  magnificent  big  black  negro,  who, 
notwithstanding  my  blasphemy,  was  grinning  from  ear 
to  ear. 

"What  do  you  want?"  I  bellowed. 

"Mr.  Saint-Gaudens,"  he  said  in  his  soft  negro  ac- 
cent, "you  told  me,  sah,  when  I  came  here,  if  any- 
body wanted  to  put  me  out,  to  just  stick  and  say,  sah, 
that  you  wanted  to  see  me,  no  matter  what  happened, 
sah." 

Let  me  add  one  other  word  to  my  father's  account  of  his 
adventures  with  his  models.  I  take  it  from  a  letter  he  sent 
at  the  time  to  his  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Thomas  J.  Homer.  It 
shows  with  even  more  emphasis  how  combinedly  earnest  and 
humorous  was  this  search  for  men  to  pose. 

148  West  Thirty-sixth  Street, 
New  York  City,  Jan.  1,  /93. 
Dear  Tom: 

At  Young's  Cafe,  in  your  great  City  of  Boston, 
there  are  two  gorgeous  darkeys,  so  gorgeous  that  I 
wish  to  put  them  in  the  Shaw  monument.  .  .  . 
When  they  are  here  I  shall  select  the  one  that  best 

337 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

suits  my  purpose,  send  the  other  right  back,  and  the 
one  that  I  keep  will  have  from  two  weeks  to  a  month's 
work  with  me  at  three  dollars  a  day.  Their  names  are 
John  Lee  and  Riley  Lee.  In  order  that  I  may  have 
them,  permission  must  be  obtained  from  E.  McDuffie, 
the  darkey  headwaiter  at  that  establishment,  a  most  in- 
telligent man,  who  does  not  imagine  that  I  wish  them 
in  order  to  cut  their  livers  out  as  the  average  darkey 
suspects.  I  've  already  spoken  to  him.  He  knows  it 
all,  and  if  you  will  step  in  there  and  get  him  to  ship 
me  these  two  beauties  at  once  you  will  be  eternally 
blessed.  Don't  let  him  ship  me  any  others.  I  've  lots 
of  others  here,  lots,  but  none  such  busters.     .     .     . 

.  .  .  It  is  possible  that  when  I  have  them  here  in 
the  cold  light  of  my  studio,  and  without  the  enthusiasm 
that  the  atmosphere  of  F Athene  modeme  always  throws 
me  in,  I  may  find  that  it  was  all  in  my  eye,  that  they 
are  no  better  than  hundreds  of  Seventh  Avenue  dark- 
eys, and  I  may  send  'em  both  back.  That  should  be 
understood.     .     .     . 

Also  the  Bohutinsky  story,  as  my  father  gives  it,  suggests  a 
most  emphatic  memory  of  the  period,  that  of  my  father's  stu- 
dio rages,  bred  by  the  nervousness  which  was  engendered  in 
turn  by  his  concentration  upon  his  work.  Ninety-nine  per 
cent,  of  these  explosions  were  due  to  variations  of  the  studio 
temperature,  for  he  was  a  cold-blooded  man.  I  believe  he  could 
detect  a  change  of  two  degrees  from  his  favorite  amount  of 
heat,  when  woe  betide  the  darkey  who  tended  stoves. 

Noise,  next  after  cold,  was  the  prime  irritant,  especially 
noise  of  an  unusual  nature.  Mr.  Adolph  Weinman,  the  sculp- 
tor who  also  was  at  one  time  my  father's  pupil,  has  written 

338 


TWO  EARLY  SKETCHES  FOR  THE  MONUMENT  TO  ROBERT  GOULD  SHAW 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

me  of  a  case  in  this  last  category.  It  is  most  characteristic 
of  my  father  both  in  the  manner  in  which  his  fury  was  aroused 
and  in  the  humor  of  his  remedy.     Mr.  Weinman  writes: 

"Here  is  an  anecdote  told  me  by  a  friend,  Herman  Parker, 
who  worked  for  your  father  in  the  Thirty-sixth  Street  studio. 
This  young  man  was  then  courting  a  girl,  and,  as  he  wished 
to  appear  at  his  best  when  he  met  her  crossing  on  the  ferry 
each  night,  he  took  great  care  to  brush  up  and  put  a  gor- 
geous polish  on  his  shoes  before  leaving  the  studio.  The 
lengthy  process  of  cleaning  seemed  to  get  on  your  father's 
nerves.  So  one  evening,  when  Herman  dropped  the  shoe- 
brush  accidentally,  making  a  great  racket,  your  father,  at  the 
time  working  on  the  elevated  platform  and  standing  on  a  lot 
of  piled  up  boxes,  suddenly  took  box  after  box  and  threw  or 
kicked  them  to  the  floor  below,  shouting  and  swearing.  Then 
all  was  quiet.  Herman,  from  the  little  office  in  front,  ran  back 
with  shaky  knees,  expecting  to  find  the  whole  Shaw  monument 
on  the  floor  in  pieces.  When  he  regained  his  speech  and  asked 
what  had  happened,  your  father  calmly  replied,  'That  was  the 
echo  of  the  brush.'  " 

Yet  though  upset  by  such  petty  annoyances,  my  father 
had,  besides  this  half-jocose  fashion  of  recovering  himself,  a 
wholly  generous  and  sweeping  manner  of  remedying  things  at 
the  end  of  these  storms ;  so  that  the  results,  for  the  most  part, 
commanded  respect  rather  than  discontent.  As  a  final  illus- 
tration, especially  of  the  second  quality,  I  remember  how, 
during  the  early  days  in  Cornish,  after  the  work  had  been 
stopped  for  the  thirty-fifth  time  while  some  one  looked  for 
a  lost  hammer,  my  father  in  his  excitement  ordered  a  gross 
of  them.  Then  at  last  the  implements  were  on  hand  when 
wanted.  Indeed  the  one  hundred  and  forty-four  were  even 
said  to  have  dulled  the  lawnmowers. 

I  should  dwell  now  upon  the  more  serious  aspects  of  the 
Shaw  as  it  emerged  from  one  of  my  father's  favorite  low-re- 
liefs to  that  extremely  "high"  development,  which  he  felt  sure 

341 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

would  be  more  effective  in  the  open  air.  During  the  process 
he  struggled  with  difficulty  after  difficulty,  both  technical  and 
artistic.  In  one  direction,  for  example,  the  constant  wetting  of 
the  clay  and  the  covering  of  the  Shaw  with  damp  rags  became 
such  a  nuisance  that  he  began  to  look  about  for  a  substitute. 
French  plastoline  in  the  quantities  he  needed  was  quite  out 
of  the  question  because  of  its  expense.  So  he  talked  the  mat- 
ter over  with  Mr.  Philip  Martiny,  who  had  been  working  for 
him,  with  the  result  that  there  was  evolved  the  present  Amer- 
ican plastoline  now  in  common  use.  A  great  to-do  also  arose 
over  such  endless  questions  as  those  concerning  the  historical 
accuracy  of  the  dress.  For  instance,  when  it  came  to  the 
flag,  he  sent  to  have  the  original  carefully  sketched  in  the  Bos- 
ton State  House. 

For  the  larger  issues,  the  negro  troops,  to  begin  with,  gave 
him  an  immense  amount  of  trouble.  For  one  thing  the  count- 
less legs  and  feet  of  the  infantry  seemed  to  bewilder  him,  until 
slowly  from  the  chaos  he  learned  his  lesson  of  dealing  with 
repeated  accents ;  a  lesson  suggested  to  him  by  the  effect  of  the 
troops  passing  beneath  his  window  in  the  days  of  his  cameo- 
cutting,  by  a  French  military  funeral  which  he  often  spoke 
of  as  impressing  him  a  few  years  later,  and  by  the  use  of  the 
spears  and  vertical  lines  in  such  compositions  as  Velasquez's 
"Surrender  of  Breda."  For  another  thing,  the  problem  of 
accoutrements,  of  the  spotty  effects  made  by  the  canteens, 
developed  in  him  a  sensitive  regard  for  the  rounding-ofF  of 
mechanically  hard  lines,  until  the  final  and  uninteresting  be- 
came always  slightly  hidden  and  suggestive.  The  process 
took  definite  shape  on  a  day  when  he  complained  to  Frederick 
MacMonnies,  then  pressing  out  these  canteens,  that  he  hated 
them,  as  he  did  all  things  completely  analyzed  and  shown. 
Whereupon  MacMonnies  replied,  "Hide  part  of  them  under 
the  drapery."  At  which  my  father  tested  his  suggestion  with 
such  relish  at  the  resulting  mystery  and  charm,  that  he  not 
only  adopted  it  permanently,  but  instituted  a  system  of  what  he 

342 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

later  called  "fluing,"  a  general  terra  including  many  devices, 
from  the  breaking  up  of  lines  to  the  filling  of  those  black 
holes,  which,  if  he  placed  logically  in  his  desired  folds  of  drap- 
ery, he  would  model  to  unsightly  depths. 

In  a  different  way  also  my  father  had  a  desperate  time  with 
a  "kink"  in  Shaw's  trousers  which  he  explained  had  caught  a 
"kink"  in  his  brain,  as  well  as  with  Shaw's  right  sleeve,  since 
he  never  could  succeed  in  making  the  folds  of  the  model's 
coat  fall  correctly  during  two  successive  periods.  Accord- 
ingly one  Sunday  an  assistant,  Lyndon  Smith,  posed  for  him, 
remaining  in  the  saddle  without  a  movement  on  his  right  side 
from  nine  in  the  morning  until  four  in  the  afternoon  when  they 
lifted  him  from  his  seat.  The  trousers  and  sleeve  were  mod- 
eled. 

But,  most  of  all,  the  flying  figure  drove  my  father  nearly 
frantic  in  his  efforts  to  combine  the  ideal  with  the  real.  For 
the  face  he  tried  first  the  beautiful  head  of  Miss  Annie  Page. 
But  that,  like  the  features  of  any  model,  always  became  much 
too  personal.  So  he  relied  wholly  upon  his  imagination  to 
produce  a  result  which  his  friends  and  pupils  have  said  some- 
what recalled  his  mother  and  somewhat  an  old  model  in  Paris ; 
though,  for  my  part,  I  believe  that  every  woman  of  beauty 
who  was  near  him  impressed  his  work.  For  the  body  and  the 
legs  of  the  figure,  the  drapery,  the  palms,  laurels,  and  what- 
ever else  she  carried  in  her  right  hand,  he  shifted  the  propor- 
tions, varied  the  "color"  of  the  relief  and  rearranged  the  folds, 
until  he  became  mentally  blind  to  the  result  and  to  the  aspect 
of  the  composition. 

Indeed,  so  great  was  his  hesitation  in  this  direction  that  he 
returned  to  the  charge  even  in  later  years,  having  by  that  time 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  flying  figure  was  not  mysteri- 
ous enough.  Therefore  he  remodeled  her  once  more  during  the 
last  part  of  his  life,  changing  the  position  of  the  feet,  and 
covering  up  the  "holes"  so  as  to  take  the  color  from  the  drap- 
ery and  thus  contrast  it  with  the  troops.     The  altered  compo- 

343 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

sition  was  placed  in  the  plaster  cast  of  the  entire  bas-relief  in 
the  Paris  Salon  of  1900,  as  well  as  in  the  relief  now  erected 
in  the  Albright  Art  Gallery  in  Buffalo.  Had  my  father  lived 
a  year  or  so  longer,  I  am  certain  he  would  have  asked  permis- 
sion to  cut  his  old  figure  from  the  bronze  and  to  insert  that 
made  so  much  later. 

Of  course  a  variety  of  causes  led  to  this  hesitation.  But 
one  reason  in  especial  for  this  nervousness  was  because  Bion, 
upon  whose  judgment  Saint-Gaudens  placed  such  confidence, 
insisted  that  the  figure  was  as  needless  as  "Simplicity"  would 
have  been  floating  over  Millet's  "Gleaners."  Here  is  a  portion 
of  a  letter  Bion  wrote  upon  the  subject  shortly  before  his 
death : — 

"I  had  no  need  of  your  'nom  de  Dieu'  allegory  on  the  ceil- 
ing. Your  negroes  marching  in  step  and  your  Colonel  leading 
them  told  me  enough.  Your  priestess  merely  bores  me  as  she 
tries  to  impress  upon  me  the  beauty  of  their  action." 

And  here  is  what  my  father  wrote  concerning  it  to  Miss 
Rose  Nichols,  in  his  effort  to  maintain  his  own  convictions: 

.  .  .  I  am  not  disturbed  by  his  dislike  of  my  fig- 
ure. It  is  because  it  does  not  look  well  in  the  photo- 
graph. If  the  figure  in  itself  looked  well,  he  would 
have  liked  it  I  know.  And  notwithstanding  his  ad- 
mirable comparison  with  the  Millet,  I  still  think  that  a 
figure,  if  well  done  in  that  relation  to  the  rest  of  the 
scheme,  is  a  fine  thing  to  do.  The  Greeks  and  Romans 
did  it  finely  in  their  sculpture.  After  all,  it 's  the  way 
the  thing 's  done  that  makes  it  right  or  wrong,  that 's 
about  the  only  creed  I  have  in  art.  However,  his  let- 
ter is  interesting,  although  very  sad,  dear  old  boy. 

Through  fourteen  years  of  such  endeavor,  then,  the  Shaw 
relief  remained  in  the  studio,  while  other  commissions  came  and 

344 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

went;  fourteen  years,  during  which  my  father  returned  to  this 
work  winter  and  summer  with  an  unflagging  persistence. 
Even  the  hottest  of  August  days  would  find  him  high  up  on  a 
ladder  under  the  baking  skylight,  as  he  developed  and  elimi- 
nated these  details  of  his  task;  for  the  details,  as  has  been 
seen,  he  changed  and  changed,  though  the  original  concep- 
tion, according  to  his  almost  consistent  practice,  he  never  al- 
tered. Early  morning  would  grow  to  noon,  scarcely  marked 
by  more  than  a  hasty  munching  of  an  apple.  Noon  would 
fade  to  dusk  without  a  falter  in  the  steady  toil.  And  then, 
after  the  evening  meal,  he  would  take  his  place  again  beneath 
the  flaring  gas  jets  when  the  special  task  was  of  a  sort  to  per- 
mit night  work. 

Naturally  such  intensity  of  application  wore  on  my  father's 
nerves  and  permanently  undermined  his  health,  until  his 
friends  became  afraid  the  evil  effects  would  show  in  his  results, 
and  finally  even  Bion  took  up  the  cudgels  from  across  the 
Atlantic,  calling  him  to  account  for  the  years  he  devoted  to 
his  statues.  To  no  purpose.  My  father  would  only  reply 
that  the  Greek  and  Renaissance  sculptors  spent  even  more  time 
on  their  commissions  than  did  he.  Here  are  portions  of  char- 
acteristic letters  that  explain  his  thoughts  on  the  subject. 
The  first  two  he  sent  at  the  time  the  work  was  in  the  studio  to 
a  lady  whom  he  deeply  admired,  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer.  The 
third  was  written  long  after,  yet,  though  dealing  primarily 
with  another  subject,  shows  indirectly  how  these  same  feel- 
ings remained  with  my  father  throughout  his  life.  The 
fourth,  also  a  comparatively  recent  letter,  sent  to  Mr.  Gilder, 
presents  better  than  anything  else  a  hint  of  that  intense  af- 
fection for  his  work  which  my  father  always  possessed.  He 
writes  first  to  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer: 

I  will  go  to  Marion  on  Saturday,  the  eighteenth,  and 
remain  Sunday  and  Monday,  leaving  Monday  evening 
to  return.     Nothing  would  please  me  more  than  to  re- 

3i5 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

main  longer,  but  I  'm  in  the  midst  of  my  work,  in  the 
best  of  spirits,  and  in  the  mood.  Too  much  vacation 
would  demoralize  me. 

I  have  a  "hossy"  at  the  studio,  and  it  is  such  a  work 
to  break  him  in  to  posing  and  to  keep  him  in  trim  that 
I  fear  a  long  absence  would  demoralize  him  too. 

Again  to  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer:    " 

.  .  .  I  Ve  done  nothing  but  model,  model,  model 
furiously  for  the  last  month.  I  Ve  been  putting  ne- 
groes of  all  types  in  the  Shaw,  and  it 's  been  great  fun. 
I  'm  as  happy  as  a  clam  over  it,  and  consequently  beau- 
tifully negligent  of  every  friend,  no  matter  how  much 
they  may  have  passed  before  my  vision  as  I  was  driv- 
ing away  at  my  darkeys. 

Much  later  * 

Dear  Mr.  W: 

I  am  not  supervising  the  monument  to  Mr.  W. 
that  Miss  Sherman  is  doing,  and  Miss  Sherman  assures 
me  that  she  has  never  said  I  was.  Nevertheless  I  have 
seen  her  work  on  several  occasions  and,  although  vir- 
tually unnecessary,  have  gladly  given  my  opinion  as  to 
various  ideas  she  had  in  mind.  The  result  is  admirable 
and  much  farther  along  than  any  one  not  a  sculptor 
would  suppose  from  the  view  of  the  models.  Never- 
theless too  much  time  cannot  be  spent  on  a  task  that  is 
to  endure  for  centuries,  and  it  is  a  great  mistake  to 
hurry  or  hamper  any  artist  in  the  production  of  work 
they  have  so  much  at  heart.  Time  passed  on  it  is  cer- 
tainly not  money  gained,  and  results  from  a  conscien- 

346 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

tious  endeavor  to  avoid  the  execution  of  an  unworthy 
thing.  You  should  consider  yourself  fortunate  not  to 
have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  sculptor  who  would 
rush  the  commission  through  on  time,  regardless  of  the 
future,  in  order  to  get  and  make  quickly  the  most 
money  possible.  A  bad  statue  is  an  impertinence  and 
an  offense.  I  should  therefore  bear  with  Miss  Sher- 
man. Your  displeasure  will  be  transient  and  turn  to 
pleasure  in  the  thought  that  when  the  work  is  com- 
pleted you  have  a  worthy  memorial.  Two  years  is  a 
very  short  time  for  such  a  work.  It  could  be  done  in 
one  year,  but  ten  years  would  not  be  too  much.  Paul 
Dubois,  the  great  Frenchman,  spent  fifteen  years  on 
his  "Joan  of  Arc."  I  had  the  Shaw  monument  four- 
teen years,  the  "Sherman"  ten. 

And  last  of  all  to  Mr.  Gilder  :- 

That  anything  I  have  done  should  have  suggested 
the  inspired  and  inspiring  ode  of  Moody's,  as  well  as 
what  you  say  in  your  splendid  address,  makes  all  the 
great  strain  and  love  gone  to  the  making  of  the 
"Shaw"  worth  while,  and  I  have  not  lived  entirely  in 
vain.     .     .     . 


347 


XIII 
EARLY   THIRTY-SIXTH   STREET   WORK 

1881-1892 

Commissions  out  of  Confusion — The  Vanderbilt  Work — The  Smith 
Tomb — The  Lincoln — The  Puritan — The  Adams  Monument. 

THE  last  chapter  dealt  mostly  with  the  Shaw  monument. 
Yet  it  must  not  be  imagined  that  during  the  stay  of 
the  relief  in  the  studio  it  occupied  my  father's 
thoughts  to  the  exclusion  of  other  work.  Quite  on  the  con- 
trary, there  were  periods  of  months  when  he  would  refuse  to 
look  at  this  task,  in  order  that  upon  seeing  it  once  more  he 
might  have  a  fresh  eye  and  unconsciously  matured  thoughts. 
At  such  times  many  other  commissions  came  and  went,  together 
with  the  turmoil  of  new  assistants  and  mechanics,  tardy  and 
none  too  conscientious  bronze-founders,  obstinate  landlords, 
captious  clients,  dull  pupils,  evasive  models,  male,  female,  and 
animal,  negro,  horse,  and  eagle — not  to  mention  a  mud-turtle 
and  some  fish — clubs,  committees,  over-due  and  endless  corre- 
spondence, scanty  funds,  fat  debts,  and  an  incessantly  jingling 
doorbell.  For  besides  the  work  mentioned  here  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing chapter,  he  completed,  in  the  course  of  the  first  ten 
years  he  occupied  the  Thirty-sixth  Street  studio,  nearly  forty 
other  works,  which  varied  in  importance  from  large  plaques 
like  the  Bellows  tablet  for  All  Souls'  Church  in  New  York  to 
such  smaller  portraits  as  that  of  Miss  Violet  Sargent,  modeled 
in  exchange  for  John  Sargent's  painting  of  myself,  or  more 
regular  orders  of  the  fashion  of  those  for  the  Hollingsworth 
Memorial  or  the  Oakes  "Ames."  Let  me  turn  then  to  a  por- 
tion of  what  my  father  says  of  all  this.  It  is  to  be  regretted 
that  he  did  not  have  opportunity  to  develop  the  theme  to  a  fair 
length.     He  writes : 

348 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

The  years  that  the  Shaw  remained  with  me  were 
filled  with  the  multitudinous  complexities  of  a  large 
number  of  tasks.  In  fact,  the  production  of  my  work 
was  much  confused,  and  dragged  in  most  cases  to 
lengths  which  would  have  taxed  the  patience  of  angels. 
Each  new  commission  attracted  me.  And  in  the  de- 
sire to  execute  it,  I  hoped  to  be  able  to  do  it  while 
modeling  those  already  on  hand.  Governor  Morgan, 
in  complaining  one  day  of  the  slow  progress  of  his  work 
when  I  promised  I  would  push  something  through, 
said: 

"Oh,  no,  you  can't.  You  delay  just  as  your  father 
did  before  you." 

Soon  after  taking  the  Thirty-sixth  Street  studio, 
Mr.  George  B.  Post  gave  me  an  order  to  make  all  the 
models  for  the  great  entrance-hall  in  the  residence  of 
Mr.  Cornelius  Vanderbilt,  which  the  architect  was  just 
about  to  erect  on  the  corner  of  Fifty-seventh  Street 
and  Fifth  Avenue.  The  undertaking  required  not 
only  the  two  caryatids  for  the  monumental  mantel- 
piece and  the  mosaic  that  surmounted  it,  but  as  well  the 
superintendence  of  the  models  for  all  the  wood-carving 
in  the  hall,  which  was  enormous,  beside  the  creating  of 
medallion  family-portraits  to  be  introduced  in  certain 
of  the  panels.  For  some  reason  these  were  not  en- 
tirely completed.  Those  that  I  did  do  were  the  por- 
traits of  young  Cornelius  and  George  Vanderbilt, 
Gertrude  Vanderbilt,  now  Mrs.  Harry  Payne  Whit- 
ney, William  H.  Vanderbilt,  and  Cornelius  Vander- 
bilt, the  first  of  the  family.     Beside  these,  I,  with  my 

349 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

brother,  Louis  Saint-Gaudens,  was  associated  with  Mr. 
La  Farge  in  composing  the  models  for  the  superb  ceil- 
ing that  he  designed  for  the  main  dining-room.  Mr. 
Post  evidently  had  the  same  confidence  in  me  that  I 
had  in  myself.  Wherefore  I  undertook  the  task  in 
the  belief  that  here  again  I  was  going  to  reform  things 
in  matters  of  that  kind  in  this  country,  and  worked 
with  great  earnestness  at  my  commissions,  particularly 
at  the  two  caryatids,  despite  the  fact  that  the  absolute 
necessity  for  the  completion  of  this  work  before  a  given 
date,  its  extent  and  its  complexity,  added  perhaps  more 
than  anything  else  to  the  distressing  confusion  of  my 
affairs  that  prevailed  during  these  years. 

At  about  this  time,  1886,  I  also  began  the  figure  for 
the  tomb  of  Mrs.  Anna  Maria  Smith,  to  go  in  the 
cemetery  at  Newport,  Rhode  Island.  This,  except 
for  minor  modifications,  was  the  original  of  the  bronze 
figure  of  "Amor  Caritas"  in  the  Museum  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg, in  Paris. 

Then,  in  the  ensuing  year,  to  add  fat  to  the  fire,  a 
committee  in  Chicago  wrote  me  asking  if  I  would  com- 
pete for  a  monument  to  Lincoln  for  that  city,  to  be 
erected  from  a  fund  provided  under  the  will  of  Mr.  Eli 
Bates.  I  refused.  Some  time  later  they  inquired  if 
I  would  not  undertake  the  commission  directly,  as  well 
as  a  fountain.  Of  course  I  accepted,  naming  a  day 
for  finishing  it,  which  still  further  decreased  the  chance 
of  completing  the  "Shaw"  in  the  time  I  hoped.  I  began 
the  statue  on  the  platform  behind  the  relief  and  these 
works  progressed  together,  though  of  course  the  Lin- 

350 


MISS  VIOLET  SARGENT 


I 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

coin  was  set  up  long  before  the  Shaw  was  finished. 
Here  again  I  asked  Mr.  White  to  design  the  surround- 
ings. The  monument  was  duly  unveiled  in  1887,  but 
unfortunately  on  a  rainy  day  and  without  the  cere- 
monies that  might  have  lent  consequence  to  the  occa- 
sion. 

After  the  "Lincoln,"  on  the  scaffolding  behind  the 
"Shaw,"  came  the  statue  of  Deacon  Samuel  Chapin,  for 
Mr.  Chester  W.  Chapin,  at  that  time  President  of  the 
Boston  and  Albany  Railroad.  The  elder  Mr.  Chapin 
was  the  father  of  my  friend  Chester  Chapin,  Jr.,  and 
I  assume  that  this  work  was  intrusted  to  me  at  his  sug- 
gestion. It  formed  part  of  a  scheme  some  gentlemen 
of  Springfield,  Massachusetts,  had  in  mind  for  erect- 
ing three  statues  of  the  three  founders  of  that  city: 
Pynchon,  which  was  made  by  Mr.  Jonathan  Hartley, 
Chapin  which  I  modeled,  and  a  third  which  has  not  yet 
been  carried  out. 

Although  my  statue  is  now  placed  close  to  the  Public 
Library,  it  was  originally  erected  near  the  station 
lower  down  in  the  city,  at  one  end  of  a  long  square  re- 
arranged and  laid  out  to  harmonize  with  the  statue. 
This  design,  also  one  of  Mr.  White's  was  admirable  in 
every  respect.  At  the  opposite  end  of  the  little  park 
from  the  statue,  and  balancing  it,  stood  a  fountain,  and 
between  the  two,  in  the  center,  a  stone  bench.  Along 
each  side  of  the  open  space  we  planted  white  birches, 
and  the  whole  we  inclosed  by  a  pine  hedge.  If  this 
could  have  remained,  and  the  buildings  around  the 
square  have  been  carried  out  as  Mr.  Chapin  expected, 

353 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

the  result  would  have  been  unusually  eif  ective.  At  the 
time  we  placed  it  there,  however,  the  quarter  of  the 
city  was  poor,  and  in  a  few  weeks  the  boys  had  de- 
stroyed everything  in  the  way  of  vegetation. 

The  statue,  as  I  have  said,  was  to  represent  Deacon 
Samuel  Chapin,  but  I  developed  it  into  an  embodiment, 
such  as  it  is,  of  the  "Puritan."  And  so  it  came 
about  that,  in  1903,  the  New  England  Society  of 
Pennsylvania  commissioned  me  to  make  a  replica  of  it. 
This  I  did  as  far  as  the  general  figure  and  arrangement 
went,  though  I  made  several  changes  in  details.  For 
the  head  in  the  original  statue,  I  used  as  a  model  the 
head  of  Mr.  Chapin  himself,  assuming  that  there  would 
be  some  family  resemblance  with  the  Deacon,  who  was 
his  direct  ancestor.  But  Mr.  Chapin's  face  is  round 
and  Gaelic  in  character,  so  in  the  Philadelphia  work  I 
changed  the  features  completely,  giving  them  the  long, 
New  England  type,  beside  altering  the  folds  of  the 
cloak  in  many  respects,  the  legs,  the  left  hand,  and  the 
Bible. 

Following  the  "Chapin"  on  the  scaffolding  was  the 
figure  in  Rock  Creek  Cemetery  which  I  modeled  for 
Mr.  Henry  Adams. 

To  speak  at  greater  length  of  these  commissions  which  my 
father  has  mentioned,  I  will  begin  with  the  Smith  tomb,  which, 
while  a  step  on  the  way  to  the  ultimate  "Amor  Caritas,"  in 
turn  emanated  from  the  angels  for  the  tomb  of  Governor  Mor- 
gan. That  is,  though  the  Morgan  tomb  figures  stood  almost 
in  the  round,  their  drapery  possessed  much  the  same  quality 
that  my  father  used  in  the  Smith  relief;  a  drapery  perhaps 

354 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

finding  its  suggestion  in  the  English  Burne-Jones  School,  which 
he  admired,  though  he  developed  their  ideas  to  more  consci- 
entious limits.  Also,  at  about  this  time,  he  made  a  number 
of  other  changes  in  this  theme.  For  instance,  the  Smith  angel 
held  in  her  raised  hands  a  tablet  with  a  long  inscription  be- 
ginning: "Blessed  are  the  dead."  So  on  another  occasion,  he 
lowered  her  hands  and  reduced  the  size  of  the  tablet,  that  it 
might  present  only  the  words,  "Gloria  in  Excelsis  Deo,"  while 
somewhat  later  he  designed  the  two  figures  in  the  round  for 
the  Hamilton  Fish  tomb,  at  Garrison-on-the-Hudson,  with 
much  the  same  feeling,  though  adding  thereto  a  slight  senti- 
ment of  early  Christian  art  of  which  he  was  an  admirer. 

The  Lincoln  that  came  next  in  order,  while  a  monument  of 
great  popularity,  developed  so  consistently  and  so  apart  from 
all  the  other  influences  that  were  seething  around  my  father 
that  there  is  little  to  record  concerning  it.  This  portion  of  a 
letter  sent  me  by  Mr.  Gilder  is  of  the  greatest  interest.  He 
writes : 

"One  night  I  saw  at  Wyatt  Eaton's,  who  was  living  on 
the  south  side  of  Washington  Square,  a  life-mask  of  Lincoln 
of  which  I  had  never  heard.  I  got  your  father  and  one  or 
two  others  to  form  a  committee,  and  we  purchased  the  original 
cast  of  that  and  of  the  two  hands,  from  Douglas  Volk,  his 
father  having  taken  them  and  given  them  to  him.  And  we 
presented  these  originals,  with  bronze  copies,  to  the  National 
Museum  at  Washington.  For  those  who  subscribed  for  the 
bronze  copies  of  the  set,  at  seventy-five  dollars,  your  father 
had  made  in  his  studio  inscriptions  with  the  name  of  the  sub- 
scriber. This  wonderful  life-mask  was,  of  course,  of  use  to 
him  in  the  Lincoln.  I  afterwards  found  another  one,  taken 
during  his  Presidency,  and  told  Colonel  Hay  about  it.  He 
bought  the  original." 

It  is  also  pertinent  to  add  that,  even  late  in  life,  my  father 
had  no  detailed  changes  which  he  would  have  cared  to  make 
in  the  Lincoln  other  than  to  reduce  the  height  of  the  statue 

355 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

by  about  two  feet,  as  he  always  had  a  horror  of  over-large 
monuments.  Regarding  the  conception  as  a  whole,  he  was 
from  the  beginning  in  two  minds  as  to  whether  or  not  to  make 
Lincoln  seated,  and  this  latter  desire  he  satisfied  in  one  of  his 
final  commissions,  when  he  completed  his  second  Lincoln  that 
is  to  be  erected  in  another  part  of  Chicago;  a  Lincoln,  the 
Head  of  the  State,  in  contrast  with  the  Lincoln,  the  Man, 
which  now  stands  on  the  northern  edge  of  the  city. 

The  final  commission  my  father  alludes  to  in  this  chapter, 
the  one  about  which  he  makes  his  briefest  mention,  the  Rock 
Creek  Cemetery  figure,  however,  demands  a  larger  share  of  at- 
tention, since  on  the  margin  of  his  text  concerning  it  he  placed 
the  word  "Amplify."  This  I  know  he  would  have  done  had 
he  lived.  For  he  looked  back  with  fondness  to  the  time  spent 
upon  this  monument,  curtained  off  in  a  studio  corner.  Here 
was  one  of  the  few  opportunities  offered  him  to  break  from  the 
limitations  of  portraiture,  limitations  from  which  all  his  life 
he  longed  to  be  free,  in  order  to  create  imaginative  compositions, 
such  as  those  which  he  began  for  the  Boston  Public  Library. 
Moreover,  he  constantly  spoke  to  me  and  to  others  of  his 
pleasure  in  suggesting  the  half-concealed,  and,  because  of  this 
pleasure,  the  veiled  face  of  this  figure  gave  him  infinite  delight 
to  dwell  upon.  But  an  even  stronger  need  for  amplification 
arises  from  the  fact  that  the  monument  has  been  the  subject 
of  an  endless  amount  of  printed  talk,  for  the  most  part  ob- 
viously inaccurate,  but  now  and  then  having  a  false  semblance 
of  truth. 

At  the  date  Mr.  Adams  gave  Saint-Gaudens  the  commission 
he  felt  in  sympathy  with  the  religious  attitudes  of  the  East. 
Yet  he  did  not  cast  his  desires  for  the  figure  in  any  definite 
mold.  Rather,  when  he  first  discussed  the  matter,  he  explained 
that  Mr.  La  Farge  understood  his  ideas  on  this  subject  and 
that,  accordingly,  my  father  would  do  well,  in  his  work,  not  to 
seek  in  any  books  for  inspiration,  but  to  talk  with  the  painter 
and  to  have  about  him  such  objects  as  photographs  of  Michel- 

356 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

angelo's  frescoes  in  the  Sistine  Chapel.  As  the  result  of  this  f 
advice,  in  the  beginning  of  his  attempt  to  grasp  Mr.  Adams' 
wishes,  my  father  first  sought  to  embody  a  philosophic  calm, 
a  peaceful  acceptance  of  death  and  whatever  lay  in  the  future. 
Therefore  he  turned  his  attention  to  a  number  of  large  photo- 
graphs and  drawings  of  Buddhas.  Of  course  he  himself  could 
not  model  a  Buddha.  But  from  the  conception  of  "Nirvana"  "" 
so  produced,  his  thought  broadened  out  in  sympathy  with  Mr. 
Adams',  becoming  more  inclusive  and  universal,  until  he  con- 
ceived the  present  figure  which  he  occasionally  explained  as  both 
sexless  and  passionless,  a  figure  for  which  there  posed  some- 
times a  man,  sometimes  a  woman. 

Here  are  portions  of  letters  from  him  to  Mr.  Adams  which 
explain  his  frame  of  mind  during  the  work: 

.  .  .  Do  you  remember  setting  aside  some  photo- 
graphs of  Chinese  statues,  Buddha,  etc.,  for  me  to  take 
away  from  Washington?  I  forgot  them.  I  should 
like  to  have  them  now.  Is  there  any  book  not  long 
that  you  think  might  assist  me  in  grasping  the  situa- 
tion? If  so,  please  let  me  know  so  that  I  might  get  it. 
I  propose  soon  to  talk  with  La  Farge  on  the  subject, 
although  I  dread  it  a  little.     .     .     . 

.  .  .  If  you  catch  me  in,  I  will  show  you  the  re- 
sult of  Michelangelo,  Buddha,  and  St.  Gaudens.  I 
think  what  I  will  do  may  not  be  quite  as  idiotic  as  if  I 
had  not  had  all  these  months  to  "chew  the  cud." 

.  .  .  The  question  now  with  me  is,  rock  or  no 
rock;  which,  when  I  have  another  sketch  indicated,  I 
will  show  La  Farge.  White  holds  that  the  rock  re- 
quires a  different  treatment  from  the  seat,  and  to  prove 
it  has  made  a  stunning  scheme.     I  'm  half  inclined 

359 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

to  give  in  to  him,  but  that  also  La  Farge  must 
pass  on. 

If  the  figure  is  cast  in  bronze  in  several  pieces  it  can 
be  set  up  in  Washington  about  July  first.  This  I  con- 
sider inadvisable,  as  the  statue  can  be  cast  in  virtually 
one  piece  which  is  seldom  done  in  these  days;  for  this, 
however,  twelve  weeks  are  necessary.  Should  this  be 
decided  on  and  you  be  away  when  the  figure  is  cast,  I 
propose  to  bronze  the  plaster  cast  and  set  it  up  at  once 
in  the  place  that  the  bronze  will  occupy  in  the  monu- 
ment in  Washington,  so  that  you  can  judge  of  its  ef- 
fect in  metal.  In  any  event,  I  should  like  to  have  you 
see  the  face  of  the  figure  in  the  clay.  If  it  were  not  for 
that  part  of  the  work  I  would  not  trouble  you.  But 
the  face  is  an  instrument  on  which  different  strains  can 
be  played,  and  I  may  have  struck  a  key  in  a  direction 
quite  different  from  your  feeling  in  the  matter.  With 
a  word  from  you  I  could  strike  another  tone  with  as 
much  interest  and  fervor  as  I  have  had  in  the  present 
one. 

My  relations  with  you  in  this  matter  have  been  so 
unusually  agreeable  that  you  can  appreciate  how  much 
I  am  troubled  at  the  prospect  of  not  having  the  bronze 
itself  in  place  on  July  first.    .     .     . 

My  dear  Adams: 

I  meant  that  my  first  communication  to  you  should 
be  a  word  asking  you  to  come  and  see  the  figure. 
However  I  have  to  give  that  up.  You  asked  that,  in 
whatever  was  placed  back  of  the  figure,  the  architec- 

360 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

ture  should  have  nothing  to  say,  and  above  all  that  it 
should  not  be  classic.  White  and  I  have  mulled  over 
this  a  great  deal,  with  the  enclosed  results.  I  do  not 
object  to  the  architecture  or  its  classicism  as  indicated 
in  Number  One,  whereas  Number  Two  would,  we  both 
fear,  be  rather  unpleasant.  This  matter  must  be  set- 
tled immediately,  and  I  cannot  do  that  without  asking 
you.  I  do  not  think  the  small  classical  cornice  and 
base  can  affect  the  figure  and,  to  my  thinking,  the  mon- 
ument would  be  better  as  a  whole.* 

If,  however,  the  plain  stone  at  the  back  of  Number 
One,  marked  "front,"  is  much  preferable  to  you,  we 
will  carry  it  out. 

In  about  ten  days  you  will  hear  from  me,  asking 
you  to  run  on.  I  've  demolished  the  figure  several 
times,  and  now  it 's  all  going  at  once. 

.  .  .  The  monument  is  finished  and  all  that  re- 
mains to  be  done  is  the  grading  and  the  planting  of 
some  trees  in  the  rear  of  the  seat.  White's  work  ap- 
pears to  me  to  be  very  fine,  sober,  and  strong.  As  to 
my  work,  you  must  judge  for  yourself.  The  rock  on 
which  the  figure  is  seated  needs  to  be  rubbed  in  order 
to  get  it  darker.  This  will  be  done  at  once.  I  did  not 
do  it  before  setting  up  the  work  as  I  was  uncertain  as 
to  the  effect  of  the  stone.  That,  however,  is  a  small 
matter.     .     .     . 

I  am  sure  that  in  ultimate  technique  the  figure  expressed  my 
father's  desires.     For  once,  in  the  spring  of  1903,  he  said  to 

*  This  was  the  design  chosen. 

361 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

my  mother  and  me,  who  were  standing  with  him  before  the 
monument,  "I  wish  I  could  remodel  that  fold  between  the  knees. 
It  makes  too  strong  a  line."  Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added, 
"I  believe  that  would  be  all  I  would  do." 

Also  I  am  certain  that  my  father  never  of  his  own  volition 
stamped  the  monument  with  that  absolute  definition  so  often 
demanded.  He  meant  to  ask  a  question,  not  to  give  an  answer. 
Therefore,  lest  some  foolish  man  or  scholar  hereafter  shall 
paste  his  label  on  the  monument,  falsely  claiming  authority  for 
so  doing,  I  wish  to  quote  the  fashion  in  which  both  sculptor  and 
owner  avoided  the  issue.  The  first  extract  I  take  from  the 
leaf  of  one  of  my  father's  scrap-books,  which  survived  the 
studio  fire  of  1904.  It  shows  how  the  original  thought  ger- 
minated in  his  mind.  Here  around  a  faint  ink  sketch  of  the 
figure  is  written: 

Adams. 

Buddha. 

Mental  repose. 

Calm  reflection  in  contrast  with  the  violence  or  force  in 
nature. 

The  second  extract  comes  from  a  letter  sent  to  me  by  Mrs. 
Barrett  Wendell. 

".  .  .  On  Thursday,  May  5,  1904,  I  was  in  the  Rock 
Creek  Cemetery  looking  at  the  wonderful  monument  by  Mr. 
St.-Gaudens  in  memory  of  Mrs.  Henry  Adams,  when  Mr.  St.- 
Gaudens  and  Mr.  John  Hay  entered  the  little  enclosure.  I 
was  deeply  impressed  and  asked  Mr.  St.-Gaudens  what  he  called 
the  figure.  He  hesitated  and  then  said,  'I  call  it  the  Mystery 
of  the  Hereafter.'  Then  I  said,  'It  is  not  happiness?'  'No,' 
he  said,  'it  is  beyond  pain,  and  beyond  joy.'  Mr.  Hay  turned 
to  me  and  said,  'Thank  you  for  asking.  I  have  always  wished 
to  know.'  " 

The  third  quotation  is  from  a  poem  upon  the  figure  by  Hil- 
degarde  Hawthorne,  which  he  greatly  admired. 

362 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

NIRVANA  - 

Yea,  I  have  lived!     Pass  on 

And  trouble  me  with  questions  nevermore. 

I  suffered.     I  have  won 

A  solemn  peace — my  peace  forevermore. 

Leave  me  in  silence  here. 

I  have  no  hope,  no  care, 

I  know  no  fear: 

For  I  have  borne — but  now  no  longer  bear. 

Deep-hid  Sorrow  calls  me  kin, 
But  my  calm  she  cannot  break. 
I  know  not  good — I  know  not  sin — 
Nor  love,  nor  hate  can  me  awake. 

Though  I  have  sought,  I  care  not  now  to  find. 

If  I  have  asked,  I  wait  for  no  reply. 

My  eyes,  from  too  much  seeing,  are  grown  blind. 

I  am  not  dead,  yet  do  not  need  to  die. 

Pass  on.     Ye  cannot  reach  me  any  more. 

Pass  on — for  all  is  past ! 

Hush — Silence  settled  ever  more  and  more, 

Silence  and  night  at  last ! 

Mr.  Adams'  attitude  is  similar  to  the  sculptor's,  naturally 
enough,  sirce  he  was  the  man  who  inspired  the  work.  From 
what  he  has  said  I  have  two  quotations.  The  first  I  have 
taken  out  of  a  letter  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Gilder  on  October  14, 
1896. 

".  .  .  The  whole  meaning  and  feeling  of  the  figure  is  in 
its  universality  and  anonymity.  My  own  name  for  it  is  'The 
Peace  of  God.'  La  Farge  would  call  it  'Kwannon.'  Petrarch 
would  say:  'Siccome  eterna  vita  e  veder  Dio,'  and  a  real  artist 
would  be  very  careful  to  give  it  no  name  that  the  public  could 
turn  into  a  limitation  of  its  nature.     With  the  understanding 

363 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

that  there  shall  be  no  such  attempt  at  making  it  intelligible 
to  the  average  mind,  and  no  hint  at  ownership  or  personal  re- 
lation, I  hand  it  over  to  St.-Gaudens." 

The  second  extract  comes  from  his  autobiography,  entitled 
"The  Education  of  Henry  Adams,"  which  Mr.  Adams  has  had 
privately  printed.  He  says  of  the  work,  speaking  of  himself 
in  the  third  person: 

".  .  .  His  first  step,  on  returning  to  Washington,  took 
him  out  to  the  cemetery  known  as  Rock  Creek,  to  see  the 
bronze  figure  which  St.  Gaudens  had  made  for  him  in  his  ab- 
sence. Naturally  every  detail  interested  him,  every  line,  every 
touch  of  the  artist,  every  change  of  light  and  shade,  every 
point  of  relation,  every  possible  doubt  of  St.-Gaudens'  cor- 
rectness of  taste  or  feeling ;  so  that,  as  the  Spring  approached, 
he  was  apt  to  stop  there  often  to  see  what  the  figure  had  to 
tell  him  that  was  new,  but,  in  all  that  it  had  to  say,  he  never 
once  thought  of  questioning  what  it  meant.  He  supposed  its 
meaning  to  be  the  one  commonplace  about  it — the  oldest  idea 
known  to  human  thought.  He  knew  that  if  he  asked  an  Asi- 
atic its  meaning,  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  from  Cairo  to 
Kamchatka  would  have  needed  more  than  a  glance  to  reply. 
From  the  Egyptian  Sphinx  to  the  Kamakura  Diabuts,  from 
Prometheus  to  Christ,  from  Michelangelo  to  Shelley,  art  had 
wrought  on  this  eternal  figure  almost  as  though  it  had  nothing 
else  to  say.  The  interest  of  the  figure  was  not  in  its  meaning, 
but  in  the  response  of  the  observer !  As  Adams  sat  there,  num- 
bers of  people  came,  for  the  figure  seemed  to  have  become  a 
tourist  fashion,  and  all  wanted  to  know  its  meaning.  Most 
took  it  for  a  portrait-statue,  and  the  remnant  were  vacant- 
minded  in  the  absence  of  a  personal  guide.  None  felt  what 
would  have  been  a  nursery  instinct  to  a  Hindu  baby  or  a  Japa- 
nese jinrikisha-runner.  The  only  exceptions  were  the  clergy, 
who  taught  a  lesson  even  deeper.  One  after  another  brought 
companions  there,  and,  apparently  fascinated  by  their  own  re- 
flection, broke  out  passionately  against  the  expression  they  felt 

364 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

in  the  figure  of  despair,  of  atheism,  of  denial.  Like  the  others, 
the  priest  saw  only  what  he  brought.  Like  all  great  artists, 
St.-Gaudens  held  up  the  mirror  and  no  more.  The  American 
layman  had  lost  sight  of  ideals,  the  American  priest  had  lost 
sight  of  faith.  Both  were  more  American  than  the  old,  half- 
witted soldiers  who  denounced  the  wasting,  on  a  mere  grave,  of 
money  which  should  have  been  given  for  drink." 

For  a  last  word  in  regard  to  the  connection  between  my 
father  and  Mr.  Adams  at  the  time,  here  is  a  most  characteristic 
anecdote :  It  is  said  that  when  Saint-Gaudens  learned  that  Mr. 
Adams  and  Mr.  La  Farge  were  soon  to  take  a  trip  around  the 
world  together,  he  worked  hard  to  complete  the  figure  in  the 
clay  for  Mr.  Adams  to  see  before  his  departure.  Therefore 
on  sending  word  that  it  was  ready,  the  sculptor  naturally  felt 
surprised  to  receive  an  answer  from  Mr.  Adams  that  he  would 
not  look  at  it,  since  if  he  should  not  like  it,  he  would  carry 
the  disappointment  through  his  trip,  whereas  otherwise  he 
would  have  only  pleasure  to  anticipate. 

All  was  well.  From  the  South  Seas,  some  months  later,  Mr. 
Adams  wrote  to  the  sculptor  the  following  letter  with  its  quota- 
tion : 

Siwa,  Fiji,  June  23,  1891. 
My  dear  St.-Gaudens: 

.  .  .  As  far  as  the  photographs  go,  they  are  satisfac- 
tory, but  I  trust  much  more  to  the  impression  produced  on 
John  Hay,  who  writes  me  that  he  has  been  to  Rock  Creek  to 
see  the  figure.  "The  work  is  indescribably  noble  and  imposing. 
It  is  to  my  mind  St.-Gaudens'  masterpiece.  It  is  full  of  poetry 
and  suggestion,  infinite  wisdom,  a  past  without  beginning,  and 
a  future  without  end,  a  repose  after  limitless  experience,  a 
peace  to  which  nothing  matters — all  are  embodied  in  this  aus- 
tere and  beautiful  face  and  form." 

Certainly  I  could  not  have  expressed  my  own  wishes  so  ex- 
actly, and,  if  your  work  approaches  Hay's  description,  you 
cannot  fear  criticism  from  me. 

365 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Let  me  close  the  chapter  by  inserting  a  translation  of  what 
is  probably  one  of  the  best  estimates  of  the  work;  that  writ- 
ten in  Paris,  in  1899,  by  Gaston  Migeon,  and  published  in 
Art  et  Decoration: 

"A  woman  is  seated  upon  a  block  of  stone,  with  her  back 
against  the  monolith.  She  is  covered  from  head  to  foot  by  an 
ample  cloak  which  falls  about  her  in  simple,  dignified  folds. 
Her  head  alone  is  visible,  a  stern  and  forbidding  profile.  Her 
chin  is  resting  upon  her  hand ;  her  eyes  are  cast  down.  She  is 
not  sleeping,  she  is  musing;  and  that  reverie  will  last  as  long 
as  the  stone  itself.  Silent,  dead  as  the  world  knows  her,  wholly 
absorbed  in  her  reverie,  she  is  the  image  of  Eternity  and  Medi- 
tation. Profound  assuagement  emanates  from  her;  upon  this 
earth  of  multiferous  activities,  and  among  that  people  of  fran- 
tic energy,  she  tells  of  the  nothingness  into  which  life  is  at  last 
resolved.  I  know  of  no  analogous  work  so  profound  in  senti- 
ment, so  exalted  in  its  art,  and  executed  by  methods  so  simple 
and  broad,  since  the  most  telling  sculpture  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
In  me  personally  it  awakens  a  deeper  emotion  than  any  other 
modern  work  of  art." 


366 


XIV 
STEVENSON  AND  OTHERS 

1881-1892 

McCosh  in  the  Studio — Meeting  with  Stevenson — The  Visit  to  Man- 
asquan — The  Sherman  Bust — Soldier  and  Author — Variations  in 
the  Relief — Letters  from  Stevenson — Love  of  Personality  and 
Literature — The  Washington  Medal — The  Diana. 

AT  this  point  Saint-Gaudens  takes  up  his  narrative  with 
an  anecdote  of  his  father  and  Dr.  McCosh.  Let  me 
say  in  advance  that,  in  accordance  with  his  custom  of 
experimenting  with  many  designs,  the  sculptor  made  thirty- 
six  two-foot  sketches  for  the  McCosh  relief,  before  arriving  at 
the  final  form.  After  the  mention  of  the  "McCosh,"  he 
dwells  upon  his  other  two  most  interesting  efforts  of  the  time, 
the  bas-relief  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and  the  bust  of  Wil- 
liam Tecumseh  Sherman.  Neither  of  these  was  a  commission. 
Both  he  took  up  through  his  intense  interest  in  the  personalities 
of  his  sitters.  These  two  portraits  were  modeled  at  almost 
the  same  time  when,  as  will  be  seen,  the  sitters  met  one  an- 
other through  Saint-Gaudens,  and  the  study  of  their  charac- 
ters so  strongly  etched,  so  sympathetic  to  the  sculptor,  yet  so 
contrasted  to  each  other,  formed  a  memory  in  his  life  to  which 
he  was  ever  fond  of  returning.  On  the  one  hand  Stevenson  in- 
stilled into  Saint-Gaudens  his  first  real  taste  for  literature. 
On  the  other,  though  my  father  had  a  deep-rooted  horror  of 
the  futility  of  war,  he  always  set  so  high  a  premium  on  virility 
and  nervous  energy  that  the  personification  of  this  in  the  Gen- 
eral stirred  his  enthusiasm  as  few  things  outside  his  art  had 
ever  inspired  it.     He  writes : 

367 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

About  this  time  I  was  commissioned  to  execute  a 
memorial  tablet  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  McCosh  of  Princeton, 
in  the  development  of  which  some  amusing  incidents 
occurred.  Father,  then  an  invalid,  was  in  the  habit 
of  coming  to  the  studio  and  lying  upon  a  couch,  where 
he  generally  fell  asleep  while  watching  me  work.  He 
was  in  the  studio  at  the  time  Dr.  McCosh  first  entered. 
When  I  introduced  them  to  each  other  the  contrast 
was  striking  between  the  short,  sturdy  physique  of 
father,  and  the  tall,  handsome,  refined  figure  of  Dr. 
McCosh  in  the  robe  in  which  he  posed  as  he  stood  upon 
a  high  table  a  few  feet  from  father. 

Shortly  after  I  had  begun  modeling,  father  asked  in 
his  energetic  way: 

"How  old  are  you?" 

Dr.  McCosh,  with  his  Scotch  accent,  gently  replied, 
"Guess." 

"Eighty-six?"  was  the  query. 

"Ah,  not  quite  so  old  as  that.     Guess  again." 

Then  after  a  moment,  Dr.  McCosh  questioned  father 
about  his  native  place.  Father  delightedly  and 
effusively  told  of  the  charm  of  the  South,  the  blue  sky, 
the  oranges,  the  figs,  the  sea,  the  gentle  weather,  and 
all  that  was  luscious  in  southern  life.  Dr.  McCosh  lis- 
tened quietly,  and  after  a  pause,  as  if  to  show  that  he 
fully  grasped  father's  colored  description,  added 
softly: 

"Ah,  well,  well,  well,  that 's  all  verrry  well,  verrry 
well,  yourrr  figs  and  yourrr  grapes,  and  yourrr  blue 
sky,  yourrr  mountains,  and  all  that.     It's  no  doubt 

368 


SKETCH  KOK  Till-.  HIGH  KKI.IKK  OK  1>K.  McCOSIl 
I'ivt-  iHwitiiniM  nl  tin-  It-ll  hauil  intlit-atct) 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

verrry  delightful,  verrry  delightful.  But  I  prefer  the 
gooseberry." 

At  that  time  I  was  working  also  on  the  Shaw,  and 
as  the  McCosh  model  stood  directly  in  front  of  it,  each 
day  I  had  to  move  the  portrait  away.  This  required 
much  bother  of  preparation.  My  appointments  with 
Dr.  McCosh  came  in  the  morning.  He  wanted  to  pose 
early,  and  I  wanted  him  to  pose  late  so  that  I  could 
have  a  good  three  or  four  hours  on  the  Shaw  before  I 
began  with  him.  As  a  result  there  remained  an  un- 
derlying conflict  between  us  as  to  the  time,  until  we 
compromised  and  he  agreed  to  arrive  an  hour  or  so 
later  than  had  been  his  habit. 

On  the  first  morning  of  the  new  order  of  things,  there- 
fore, without* making  any  preparations  for  Dr.  Mc- 
Cosh's  coming,  I  proceeded  with  my  work  upon  my 
horse,  the  gray  one  referred  to  before.  He  stood  on  one 
side,  next  to  the  wall,  and  as  the  studio  re-echoed  like 
a  sounding-board,  keeping  him  there  was  much  like 
hitching  him  in  your  parlor,  while  the  pawing  and  kick- 
ing of  the  resentful  animal,  tied  about  with  all  kinds  of 
straps  to  hold  him  in  position,  resembled  the  violent 
tumbling  and  hurling  around  of  great  rocks  on  the 
floor.  Besides,  I  had  an  arrangement  of  boxes  on 
which  I  climbed  to  my  work,  so  that  between  the  stamp- 
ing of  the  horse,  the  shouting  and  curses  of  the  man 
who  held  him,  and  my  own  rushing  up  and  down  from 
the  horse  to  the  model  and  the  model  to  the  horse,  the 
studio  was  far  from  a  place  of  rest.  Notwithstanding 
the  agreement,  however,  Dr.  McCosh  appeared  an  hour 

371 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

and  a  half  earlier  than  the  appointed  time.  I  was  ex- 
cessively displeased  at  his  coming  and  stopping  my 
work  in  this  way.     I  said: 

"Dr.  McCosh,  you  are  early  and  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
have  to  keep  on  as  I  have  made  arrangements  for  the 
horse." 

"Go  ahead,  go  ahead,"  he  replied.  "I  '11  sit  down 
here  and  wait." 

"Very  well,  Dr.  McCosh." 

Accordingly  Dr.  McCosh  sat  down  in  one  corner 
without  seeing  my  father,  who  already  slept  in  another. 
Nor  was  it  long  before  he  fell  asleep  too,  and  the  snores 
of  my  father,  vigorous  and  strong,  contrasting  with  the 
gentle,  academic  ones  of  Dr.  McCosh,  lent  singularity  to 
the  occasion.  Nevertheless,  I  proceeded  with  my  work 
and  they  with  their  sleeping  until,  at  the  hour  agreed 
upon,  I  stepped  from  my  scaffolding,  the  man  removed 
the  boxes  of  which  there  were  twenty  or  thirty,  making 
a  great  commotion,  the  horse  was  led  out  of  the  stall, 
saddled,  bridled — it  can  be  fancied  how  peaceful  this  op- 
eration was,  with  the  restless  animal  stamping  around  in 
impatience — the  big  double  doors  leading  to  the  street 
were  unbolted  and  opened,  the  man  mounted,  and  with  a 
final  multitudinous  pounding  and  standing  on  hind-legs 
within  two  feet  of  Dr.  McCosh,  the  anxious  horse  rum- 
bled out  of  the  studio,  noisy  enough  to  wake  the  dead, 
leaped  into  the  street,  and  rushed  off  to  his  oats.  Yet 
Dr.  McCosh  and  my  father  slept  on  as  peacefully  as 
children,  while  the  studio  fell  into  a  great  quiet,  broken 
only  by  the  rhythmic  sound  of  their  slumbers,  until  pres- 

372 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

ently,  as  I  was  afraid  of  losing  too  much  of  Dr.  Mc- 
Cosh's  time  for  my  sitting,  I  stood  close  by  and  made 
noise  loud  enough  to  waken  even  him.  As  he  opened 
his  eyes,  I  said  gently  and  amiably: 

"Dr.  McCosh,  you  have  been  having  a  nap." 
"Oh,  no,  not  at  all,"  he  said.     "Not  at  all,  not  at  all. 
I  have  been  waiting  for  you." 

It  is  singular  how  one  will  forget  important  things. 
I  was  about  to  overlook  my  experience  with  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson,  which  took  place  in  the  autumn  of 
1887.  Shortly  before  this  time  my  friend,  Mr.  Wells, 
a  man  of  infinite  taste  and  judgment,  great  learning 
and  delightful  conversation,  as  well  as  a  keen  lover  and 
appreciator  of  music,  drew  my  attention  to  the  New 
Arabian  Nights,  by  a  young  author  just  making  him- 
self known.  I  am,  unfortunately,  very  little  of  a 
reader,  but  my  introduction  to  these  stories  set  me 
aflame  as  have  few  things  in  literature.  So  when  I 
subsequently  found  that  my  friend,  Mr.  Low,  knew 
Stevenson  quite  well,  I  told  him  that,  if  Stevenson  ever 
crossed  to  this  side  of  the  water,  I  should  consider  it  an 
honor  if  he  would  allow  me  to  make  his  portrait.  It 
was  but  a  few  weeks  after  this  that  Stevenson  arrived 
in  America  on  his  way  to  the  Adirondacks.  He  ac- 
cepted my  offer  at  once,  and  I  began  the  medallion  at 
his  rooms  in  the  Hotel  Albert  in  Eleventh  Street,  not 
far  from  where  I  lived  in  Washington  Place.  All  I 
had  the  time  to  do  from  him  then  was  the  head, 
which  I  modeled  in  five  sittings  of  two  or  three  hours 
each.     These  were  given  me  in  the  morning,  while  he, 

373 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

as  was  his  custom,  lay  in  bed  propped  up  with  pillows, 
and  either  read  or  was  read  to  by  Mrs.  Stevenson. 

I  can  remember  some  few  things  as  to  my  personal 
impressions  of  him.  He  said  that  he  believed  "Olala" 
to  be  his  best  story,  or  that  he  fancied  it  the  best,  and 
that  George  Meredith  was  the  greatest  English  litter- 
ateur of  the  time.  Also  he  told  me  of  his  pet-liking  for 
his  own  study  of  Robert  Burns.  He  gave  me  a  com- 
plete set  of  his  own  works,  in  some  of  which  he  placed 
a  line  or  two.  In  "Virginibus  Puerisque,"  he  wrote, 
"Read  the  essay  on  Burns.  I  think  it  is  a  good  thing.'' 
Thus  the  modest  man ! 

Again  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  sittings,  as  I  was 
about  to  go  out,  he  rose  from  his  bed  and  we  chatted 
concerning  some  commercial  arrangement  he  had  his 
mind  on.  He  asked  my  advice.  I  gave  it,  such  as  it 
was,  parenthetically  observing,  "Oh,  well,  everything 
is  right  and  everything  is  wrong." 

While  I  was  speaking,  he  had  entered  a  little  closet 
to  wash  his  hands.     He  came  out  wiping  them. 

"Yes,  yes,  that  is  true,  that  is  true,"  he  said  continu- 
ing to  rub  his  fingers.  "Yes,  everything  is  right  and 
everything  is  wrong." 

I  also  recall  his  saying,  "The  man  who  has  not  seen 
the  dawn  every  day  of  his  life  has  not  lived."  And 
again,  in  speaking  of  crossing  the  ocean  and  traveling 
by  sea,  he  referred  to  its  charm  and  danger  and  added, 
"The  man  who  has  not  taken  his  life  in  his  hands  at 
some  time  or  other,  has  not  lived." 

In  connection  with  this  vein  in  his  personality,  I  re- 

374 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

member  visiting  him  one  evening  when  he  lay  on  his 
bed  in  the  half -gloom,  the  lamp  being  in  another  room. 
I  sat  on  the  bed's  edge,  barely  able  to  discern  his  fig- 
ure in  the  dimness.  He  talked  in  the  monotonous  tone 
one  frequently  assumes  when  in  the  twilight,  speaking 
of  his  keen  admiration  for  Lawrence,  Governor  of 
India.  Then  I  first  realized  his  reverence  for  men  of 
action,  men  of  affairs,  soldiers,  and  administrators. 
Moreover,  he  said  with  great  feeling  that  his  chief  de- 
sire in  the  world  was  the  power  to  knock  down  a  man 
who  might  insult  him,  and  that  perhaps  the  most  try- 
ing episode  in  his  life  was  one  in  which  he  had  a  con- 
versation with  a  man  which,  had  it  taken  a  certain  di- 
rection, would  have  left  no  alternative  but  one  of  per- 
sonal altercation  in  which  he  himself  could  present  but 
a  pitiable  figure.  This  impressed  me  as  being  the  most 
feeling  thing  he  ever  said  to  me. 

Shortly  after  that  he  went  to  Saranac,  and  the  fol- 
lowing Spring  he  came  south  and  took  a  little  house  at 
Manasquan,  New  Jersey,  near  his  friend  Mr.  Low. 

Here  occurred  a  delightful  episode.  After  having 
modeled  the  head,  I  had  determined  to  make  Steven- 
son's medallion  large  enough  to  include  the  hands,  and 
for  that  purpose,  in  order  not  to  disturb  him,  I  had  be- 
gun them  from  those  of  Mrs.  Saint-Gaudens',  whose 
long,  slender  fingers  I  had  noticed  resembled  his.  But 
the  result  would  not  come  out  successfully ;  so,  on  his  ar- 
rival at  Manasquan,  I  begged  for  a  sitting,  that  I 
might  make  a  drawing  and  some  casts.  He  assented 
and  a  day  was  appointed.     I  took  with  me  my  son 

375 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

Homer,  a  child  of  eight,  and  on  the  way  down  on  the 
boat  endeavored  to  impress  on  the  boy  the  fact  that  he 
was  about  to  see  a  man  whom  he  must  remember  all 
his  life.  It  was  a  lovely  day,  and  as  I  entered  the 
room  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Stevenson 
lay  as  usual  on  rather  a  high  monumental  bed.  I  pre- 
sented Homer  to  him  with  mock  formality,  as  one  does 
with  a  child.  But  since  my  son's  interest,  notwith- 
standing my  injunctions,  was,  to  say  the  least,  far  from 
enthusiastic,  I  sent  him  out  to  play. 

I  then  asked  Stevenson  to  pose,  but  that  was  not 
successful,  all  the  gestures  being  forced  and  affected. 
Therefore  I  suggested  to  him  that  if  he  would  try  to 
write,  some  natural  attitude  might  result.  He  as- 
sented, and  taking  a  sheet  of  paper,  of  which  he  always 
had  a  lot  lying  around  on  the  bed,  pulled  his  knees  up 
and  began.  Immediately  his  attitude  was  such  that  I 
was  enabled  to  create  something  of  use  and  to  continue 
drawing,  while  he  wrote  with  an  occasional  smile. 
Presently  I  finished,  and  told  him  there  was  no  neces- 
sity for  his  writing  any  more.  He  did  not  reply  but 
proceeded  for  quite  a  while.  Then  he  folded  the  pa- 
per with  deliberation,  placed  it  in  an  envelope,  ad- 
dressed it,  and  handed  it  to  me.  It  was  to  "Master 
Homer  Saint-Gaudens." 

"I  asked  him:  'Do  you  wish  me  to  give  this  to  the 
boy?' 

"Yes." 

"When?    Now?" 

"Oh,  no,  in  five  or  ten  years,  or  when  I  am  dead." 

376 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

I  put  it  in  a  safe  and  here  it  is! 

Manasquan,  New  Jersey,  27th  May,  1888. 
Dear  Homer  St.-Gaudens : 

Your  father  has  brought  you  this  day  to  see  me, 
and  he  tells  me  it  is  his  hope  you  may  remember 
the  occasion.  I  am  going  to  do  what  I  can  to 
carry  out  his  wish;  and  it  may  amuse  you,  years 
after,  to  see  this  little  scrap  of  paper  and  to  read 
what  I  write.  I  must  begin  by  testifying  that  you 
yourself  took  no  interest  whatever  in  the  introduc- 
tion, and  in  the  most  proper  spirit  displayed  a 
single-minded  ambition  to  get  back  to  play,  and 
this  I  thought  an  excellent  and  admirable  point  in 
your  character.  You  were  also,  I  use  the  past 
tense,  with  a  view  to  the  time  when  you  shall  read, 
rather  than  to  that  when  I  am  writing,  a  very 
pretty  boy,  and,  to  my  European  views,  start- 
lingly  self-possessed.  My  time  of  observation 
was  so  limited  that  you  must  pardon  me  if  I  can 
say  no  more:  what  else  I  marked,  what  restless- 
ness of  foot  and  hand,  what  graceful  clumsiness, 
what  experimental  designs  upon  the  furniture, 
was  but  the  common  inheritance  of  human  youth. 
But  you  may  perhaps  like  to  know  that  the  lean 
flushed  man  in  bed,  who  interested  you  so  little, 
was  in  a  state  of  mind  extremely  mingled  and  un- 
pleasant; harassed  with  work  which  he  thought  he 
was  not  doing  well,  troubled  with  difficulties  to 
which  you  will  in  time  succeed,  and  yet  looking 

377 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

forward  to  no  less  a  matter  than  a  voyage  to  the 
South  Seas  and  the  visitation  of  savage  and  desert 
islands. 

Your  father's  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

I  believe  I  made  another  visit  to  Manasquan,  for,  as 
well  as  the  drawing,  I  possessed  casts  of  Stevenson's 
hands  which  I  used  in  modeling.  But  I  cannot  recol- 
lect the  trip.  He  shortly  after  went  to  Samoa,  where 
I  had  a  little  correspondence  with  him,  as  he  was  de- 
sirous of  putting  on  the  walls  of  his  home  there  in 
bronze  letters  the  names  of  his  friends  and  visitors,  and 
so  wished  me  to  find  out  at  how  reasonable  a  rate  they 
could  be  cast  and  supplied  to  him.  It  was  too  expen- 
sive, and  as  he  wrote  me:  "Another  gable  of  Abbots- 
ford  has  gone  down."  I  also  had  two  or  three  letters 
from  him  on  the  receipt  of  the  medallion,  which  took 
an  unconscionable  time  in  reaching  him.*  There,  with 
the  exception  of  an  episode  which  I  shall  presently 
tell,  my  relations  with  him  ended. 

While  modeling  the  relief  of  the  Stevenson  I  had  in 
my  studio  another  absorbing  portrait,  a  bust  of  Gen- 
eral Sherman,  the  chance  to  make  which  Whitelaw 
Reid  had  been  instrumental  in  obtaining  for  me.  This 
task  was  also  a  labor  of  love,  for  the  General  had  re- 
mained in  my  eye  as  the  typical  American  soldier  ever 
since  I  had  formed  that  idea  of  him  during  the  Civil 
War.     The  bust  I  made  in  about  eighteen  periods  of 

*  See  pages  385  ff.  for  these  letters. 

378 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON,  MODELED  IN  BAS-RELIEF  IN  1887 
DURING  STEVENSON'S  ILLNESS  IN  NEW  YORK 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

two  hours  each.  It  was  a  memorable  experience,  and 
I  regret  nothing  more  than  that  I  did  not  write  down  a 
daily  record  of  his  conversation,  for  he  talked  freely  and 
most  delightfully  of  the  war,  men  and  things.  I  can 
only  recall  the  pride  with  which  he  spoke,  the  force  of 
his  language  and  the  clear  picture  he  presented  as  he 
described  the  appearance  of  his  army  in  the  great  re- 
view at  Washington  when  the  final  campaign  was  over. 
He  explained  how  the  other  divisions,  or  armies, 
cleaned  themselves  up,  so  to  speak,  for  this  grand  event, 
and  of  replying  to  some  one  who  asked  him  if  he  was 
not  going  to  do  the  same :  "By  no  means.  Let  them  be 
seen  as  they  fought."  The  General  was  an  excellent 
sitter,  except  when  I  passed  to  his  side  to  study  the  pro- 
file. Then  he  seemed  uneasy.  His  eyes  followed  me 
alertly.  And  if  I  went  too  far  around,  his  head  turned 
too,  very  much,  some  one  observed,  as  if  he  was  watch- 
ing out  for  his  "communications  from  the  rear." 

As  I  have  said,  at  the  same  time  that  I  was  at  work 
upon  Sherman  I  was  modeling  the  relief  of  Steven- 
son. The  author  admired  the  General  intensely  and 
asked  me  if  I  could  have  them  meet. 

So  one  day  I  said  to  Sherman,  "Robert  Louis  Ste- 
venson, whose  portrait  I  am  making,  is  very  desirous 
of  seeing  you,  and  asked  if  you  would  grant  an  appoint- 
ment for  that  purpose." 

"Who  is  Robert  Louis  Stevenson?"  questioned  the 
General.     "Is  he  one  of  my  boys?" 

The  fact  was  the  General  came  into  such  constant 
contact  with  his  old  soldiers  that  he  supposed  the  av- 

381 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

erage  man  desirous  of  meeting  him  likely  to  be  one  of 
his  "boys,"  as  he  called  them.  I  told  him  that  Steven- 
son was  the  writer  of  the  New  Arabian  Nights  and  a 
man  of  great  distinction.  He  shook  his  head.  He  did 
not  know  him.  Recalling  that  the  General  loved  the 
theater,  I  explained  that  Stevenson  was  the  author  of 
"Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,"  then  creating  a  sensation 
in  New  York. 

He  answered,  "The  man  who  wrote  that  is  no  fool," 
and  said  he  would  be  glad  to  meet  Stevenson. 

Accordingly  it  was  arranged  that  Mrs.  Stevenson 
should  come  in  advance  to  break  the  way  and  to  set  a 
definite  appointment,  as  Stevenson's  delicate  health 
made  it  difficult  for  him  to  arrange  beforehand  what 
he  could  do.  When  she  called  the  following  day,  the 
General  as  usual  sat  on  the  platform  from  which  I  was 
modeling  him.     She  said, 

"Mr.  Stevenson  is  a  great  admirer  of  yours,  Gen- 
eral." 

"Ah,  is  that  so?    Is  he  one  of  my  boys?" 

I  must  say  here  that  we  were  approaching  the  end 
of  the  General's  life. 

"No,  but  Mr.  Saint-Gaudens  has  told  you  of  the 
play  Mr.  Stevenson  wrote  which  interested  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes." 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Stevenson  had  seated  herself  on  the 
corner  of  his  platform,  and  soon  Sherman  began  talk- 
ing to  her  with  his  delightful  freedom,  until  at  last  in 
describing  the  much  greater  danger  of  the  insignificant 

382 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

looking  wound  of  a  musket-ball  than  that  of  the  ugly 
slash  of  a  saber  cut,  he  demonstrated  the  cut  by  a  sweep 
of  his  hand  in  the  air,  and  the  musket  shot,  by  a  thrust 
of  his  forefinger  in  Mrs.  Stevenson's  side. 

At  last,  however,  it  was  agreed  that  Stevenson 
should  visit  the  General  on  a  certain  afternoon  at  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Hotel.  So  at  the  time  appointed  I  took 
the  author  in  a  cab  from  his  home  to  Twenty-third 
Street  where  we  were  ushered  into  an  ante-room  of  Sher- 
man's apartment.  There,  probably  through  some  mis- 
understanding, we  were  kept  waiting  quite  a  while  to 
the  evident  irritation  of  Stevenson  who  began  to  pace  up 
and  down  the  carpet.  Presently,  however,  they  asked  us 
into  another  room  and  the  General  entered.  After 
the  usual  introduction  General  Sherman  repeated  his 
former  question,  asking  if  Stevenson  was  one  of  his 
"boys,"  and  upon  being  told  that  he  was  not,  seemed  to 
lose  interest  in  the  interview.  The  conversation  re- 
mained conventional  and  perfunctory,  and  the  meeting 
looked  like  a  failure  until  Stevenson  questioned  Sher- 
man about  some  point  in  his  campaigns.  Immediately 
the  General  brightened.  He  saw  by  the  inquiry  that 
Stevenson  knew  what  he  was  talking  about,  and  it  was 
not  many  moments  before  they  were  both  busily  en- 
gaged fighting  his  battles  over,  with  a  map  stretched 
out  on  the  round  table  in  the  center  of  the  room. 
There  my  recollection  ceases  and  I  can  only  remember 
driving  back  in  the  cab  with  Mr.  Stevenson  through 
the  mist,  a  real  Scotch  one. 

383 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

The  medallion  of  Stevenson  was  probably  one  of  the  most 
popular  works  my  father  created,  and  as  the  demand  for  it 
continued  without  interruption,  Saint-Gaudens  remodeled  it  in 
a  number  of  forms,  culminating  in  the  large  relief  placed,  in 
memory  of  the  author,  on  the  wall  of  St.  Giles  Church,  Edin- 
burgh, Scotland.  First  my  father  made  the  original  head, 
slightly  smaller  than  life-size.  Then  he  designed  an  oblong 
composition  which  showed  Stevenson  propped  up  in  bed,  his 
manuscript  before  him,  a  cigarette  in  his  hand,  and  which  bore 
some  of  his  verses  beginning,  "Youth  now  flees  on  feathered 
foot."  Next  followed  a  round  variation,  three  feet  in  diam- 
eter, representing  the  whole  bed,  with  the  poem  composed  in  a 
different  form,  and  a  winged  Pegasus  added.  After  that  ap- 
peared other  small  replicas  of  the  round  and  the  oblong  forms, 
with  the  drapery  and  verses  once  more  altered.  And  finally 
two  arrangements  of  the  big  relief  were  created  in  which  the 
bed  gave  place  to  a  couch,  the  blanket  to  a  rug,  and,  in  defer- 
ence to  the  site  in  a  church,  the  cigarette  to  a  quill  pen,  and  the 
poem  to  a  prayer. 

Extensive  popularity  or  the  size  of  financial  returns,  how- 
ever, had  so  little  influence  upon  my  father's  attitude  towards 
any  of  his  work  that  he  never  would  have  troubled  to  carry  this 
development  so  far  had  it  not  been  for  that  tremendous  admira- 
tion for  the  author  which  he  has  mentioned.  To  further 
emphasize  this  point  here  is  an  extract  from  a  letter  he  wrote 
concerning  Stevenson  to  their  mutual  friend,  Mr.  Low :  - 

.  .  .  My  episode  with  Stevenson  has  been  one  of 
the  events  of  my  life,  and  I  now  understand  the  condi- 
tion of  mind  Gilder  gets  into  about  people.  I  'm  in 
that  beatific  state.  It  makes  me  very  happy,  and  as 
the  pursuit  of  happiness  is  an  inalienable  right,  "God- 
given,"  "one  and  indivisible,"  vide  constitution  of  the 
United  States,  I  'm  damned  if  I  don't  think  I  Ve  a 
right  to  be  so,  provided  I  don't  injure  any  one. 

384 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Indeed,  at  one  time,  my  father  went  so  far  that  he  found 
himself  taking  Stevenson's  part  rather  critically  against  his 
own  friends.  But  such  was  his  devotion  to  the  author  that 
even  this  situation  did  not  disturb  him,  for  he  said,  "I  don't 
care,  I  am  Irish  and  willing  to  pitch  in  and  fight  for  any  feller 
I  'm  fond  of,  no  matter  on  what  side.     .     .     ." 

It  is  pleasant  to  remember  that  my  father's  admiration  for 
Stevenson  was  reciprocated,  and  to  insert  four  of  Stevenson's 
letters  which  I  have  been  kindly  permitted  to  use.  The  first 
was  written  to  Sidney  Colvin  in  September,  1887,  the  last  three 
to  my  father. 

My  dear  S.  C: 

Your  delightful  letter  has  just  come,  and  finds  me  in  a  New 
York  hotel,  waiting  the  arrival  of  a  sculptor  (St.-Gaudens), 
who  is  making  a  medallion  of  yours  truly,  and  who  is  (to  boot), 
one  of  the  handsomest  and  nicest  fellows  I  have  seen. 

Vailima,  Samoa,  May  29th,  1893. 

My  dear  God-like  Sculptor: 

I  wish  in  the  most  delicate  manner  in  the  world  to  insinuate 
a  few  commissions: 

No.  1. — Is  for  a  couple  of  copies  of  my  medallion,  as  gilt- 
edged  and  high-toned  as  it  is  possible  to  make  them.  One  is 
for  our  house  here,  and  should  be  addressed  as  above.  The 
other  is  for  my  friend,  Sidney  Colvin,  and  should  be  ad- 
dressed— Sidney  Colvin,  Esq.,  Keeper  of  the  Print  Room,  Brit- 
ish Museum,  London. 

No.  2. — This  is  a  rather  large  order,  and  demands  some 
explanation.  Our  house  is  lined  with  varnished  wood  of  a  dark 
ruddy  color,  very  beautiful  to  see ;  at  the  same  time,  it  calls 
very  much  for  gold;  there  is  a  limit  to  picture  frames,  and 
really  you  know  there  has  to  be  a  limit  to  the  pictures  you  put 
inside  of  them.  Accordingly,  we  have  had  an  idea  of  a  certain 
kind  of  decoration,  which,  I  think,  you  might  help  us  to  make 

385 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

practical.  What  we  want  is  an  alphabet  of  gilt  letters  (very 
much  such  as  people  play  with),  and  all  mounted  on  spikes  like 
drawing-pins ;  say  two  spikes  to  each  letter,  one  at  top,  and  one 
at  bottom.  Say  that  they  were  this  height,  and  that  you 
chose  a  model  of  some  really  exquisitely  fine,  clear  type  from 
some  Roman  monument,  and  that  they  were  made  either  of 
metal  or  some  composition  gilt — the  point  is,  could  not  you,  in 
your  land  of  wooden  houses,  get  a  manufacturer  to  take  the 
idea  and  manufacture  them  at  a  venture,  so  that  I  could  get 
two  or  three  hundred  pieces  or  so  at  a  moderate  figure?  You 
see,  suppose  you  entertain  an  honored  guest,  when  he  goes  he 
leaves  his  name  in  gilt  letters  on  your  walls ;  an  infinity  of  fun 
and  decoration  can  be  got  out  of  hospitable  and  festive  mot- 
toes ;  and  the  doors  of  every  room  can  be  beautified  by  the  leg- 
end of  their  names.  I  really  think  there  is  something  in  the 
idea,  and  you  might  be  able  to  push  it  with  the  brutal  and 
licentious  manufacturer,  using  my  name  if  necessary,  though  I 
should  think  the  name  of  the  god-like  sculptor  would  be  more 
germane.  In  case  you  should  get  it  started,  I  should  tell  you 
that  we  should  require  commas  in  order  to  write  the  Samoan 
language,  which  is  full  of  words  written  thus:  la'u,  ti'e  ti'e. 
As  the  Samoan  language  uses  but  a  very  small  proportion  of 
the  consonants,  we  should  require  a  double  or  treble  stock  of  all 
vowels  and  of  F,  G,  L,  U,  N,  P,  S,  T,  and  V. 

The  other  day  in  Sydney,  I  think  you  might  be  interested 

to  hear,  I  was  sculpt  a  second  time  by  a  man  called  X ,  as 

well  as  I  can  remember  and  read.  I  must  n't  criticize  a  pres- 
ent, and  he  had  very  little  time  to  do  it  in.  It  is  thought  by 
my  family  to  be  an  excellent  likeness  of  Mark  Twain.  This 
poor  fellow,  by  the  bye,  met  with  the  devil  of  an  accident.  A 
model  of  a  statue  which  he  had  just  finished  with  a  desperate 
effort  was  smashed  to  smithereens  on  its  way  to  an  exhibi- 
tion. 

Please  be  sure  and  let  me  know  if  anything  is  likely  to  come 

386 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

of  this  letter  business,  and  the  exact  cost  of  each  letter,  so  that 
I  may  count  the  cost  before  ordering.     Yours  sincerely, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

Again  :• 

Vailima,  September,  1899. 
My  dear  St.-Gaudens: 

I  had  determined  not  to  write  to  you  till  I  had  seen  the  me- 
dallion, but  it  looks  as  if  that  might  mean  the  Greek  Kalends 
or  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Reassure  yourself,  your  part  is 
done,  it  is  ours  that  halts — the  consideration  of  conveyance 
over  our  sweet  little  road  on  boys'  backs,  for  we  cannot  very 
well  apply  the  horses  to  this  work ;  there  is  only  one ;  you  can- 
not put  it  in  a  pannier;  to  put  it  on  the  horse's  back  we  have 
not  the  heart.  Beneath  the  beauty  of  R.  L.  S.,  to  say  nothing 
of  his  verses,  which  the  publishers  find  heavy  enough,  and  the 
genius  of  the  god-like  sculptor,  the  spine  would  snap  and  the 
well-knit  limbs  of  the  (ahem)  cart-horse  would  be  loosed  by 
death.  So  you  are  to  conceive  me,  sitting  in  my  house,  dubi- 
tative,  and  the  medallion  chuckling  in  the  warehouse  of  the 
German  firm  for  some  days  longer;  and  hear  me  meanwhile  on 
the  golden  letters. 

Alas !  they  are  all  my  fancy  painted,  but  the  price  is  prohibi- 
tive. I  cannot  do  it.  It  is  another  day-dream  burst.  An- 
other gable  of  Abbotsford  has  gone  down,  fortunately  before  it 
was  builded,  so  there's  nobody  injured — except  me.  I  had  a 
strong  conviction  that  I  was  a  great  hand  at  writing  inscrip- 
tions, and  meant  to  exhibit  and  test  my  genius  on  the  walls  of 
my  house;  and  now  I  see  I  can't.  It  is  generally  thus.  The 
Battle  of  the  Golden  Letters  will  never  be  delivered.  On 
making  preparation  to  open  the  campaign,  the  King  found  him- 
self face  to  face  with  invincible  difficulties,  in  which  the  rapacity 
of  a  mercenary  soldiery  and  the  complaints  of  an  impoverished 
treasury  played  an  equal  part.     Ever  yours. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 
387 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

I  enclose  a  bill  for  the  medallion;  have  been  trying  to  find 
your  letter,  quite  in  vain,  and  therefore  must  request  you  to 
pay  for  the  bronze  letters  yourself  and  let  me  know  the  dam- 
age. 

R.  L.  S. 


And  finally  :■ 

Vailima,  Samoa,  July  8,  1894. 

My  dear  St.-Gaudens: 

This  is  to  tell  you  that  the  medallion  has  been  at  last  trium- 
phantly transported  up  the  hill  and  placed  over  my  smoking- 
room  mantelpiece.  It  is  considered  by  everybody  a  first-rate 
but  flattering  portrait.  We  have  it  in  a  very  good  light,  which 
brings  out  the  artistic  merits  of  the  god-like  sculptor  to  great 
advantage.  As  for  my  own  opinion,  I  believe  it  to  be  a  speak- 
ing likeness  and  not  flattering  at  all ;  possibly  a  little  the  reverse. 
The  verses  (curse  the  rhyme)  look  remarkably  well. 

Please  do  not  longer  delay,  but  send  me  an  account  for  the 
expense  of  the  gilt  letters.  I  was  sorry  indeed  that  they  proved 
beyond  the  means  of  a  small  farmer. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

Robeet  Louis  Stevenson. 

My  father's  reverence  for  the  virility  of  Sherman  and  for  the 
charm  of  Stevenson  was  of  great  value  in  the  pleasure  it  gave 
him.  Yet  more  than  that,  it  brought  to  a  focus  in  him  two 
new  and  vital  developments  to  which  I  have  already  alluded, 
his  appreciation  of  character  in  those  around  him,  and  his  ad- 
miration of  the  art  of  letters. 

Regarding  his  understanding  of  character,  hitherto  he  had 
shown  little  interest  in  men  or  women  except  as  they  bore  upon 
his  work,  and  his  sitters  had  never  consciously  been  anything 
but  visible,  tangible  objects  to  interpret.  With  such  an  atti- 
tude he  had  approached  Stevenson.  But  after  each  visit  there 
grew  in  the  sculptor  a  desire  to  comprehend  the  mental  signif- 

388 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

icance  of  the  man  before  him  and  to  bring  it  to  light  through  his 
physical  expression  and  gesture,  even  if  the  process  was  made 
at  the  sacrifice  of  "smart"  modeling.  So  it  came  about  that, 
from  the  time  of  the  Stevenson  medallion  and  the  Sherman 
bust,  Saint-Gaudens  applied  this  attitude  to  every  other  work, 
beginning  each  portrait  by  reading  all  possible  biographies  of 
the  subject,  or,  if  the  person  he  planned  to  model  was  alive, 
keeping  him  in  a  constant  state  of  conversation. 

In  a  similar  way,  too,  there  was  developed  Saint-Gaudens* 
deep  regard  for  the  English  language.  Before  his  meeting  with 
Stevenson  he  knew  very  little  of  modern  writing.  He  had  en- 
joyed occasional  novels  by  Anatole  France  and  had  read  Mau- 
passant, though  finding  him  depressing.  Now,  however,  caught 
by  Stevenson's  charm,  he  followed  that  author  from  stories  to 
essays  and  departed  thence  to  essays  by  other  pens  until  he  be- 
came a  steady  and  appreciative  reader,  with  a  strong  liking  for 
what  he  called  "aroma"  or  "perfume"  in  literary  effort.  Here 
are  some  passages  from  letters  he  wrote  me,  reflecting  in  a 
slight  way  his  attitude: 

.  .  .  I  have  passed  a  most  enjoyable  hour  read- 
ing Bradford  Torrey's  paper  on  Anatole  France  in  the 
March  Atlantic.  Read  it  by  all  means  if  you  can  get 
a  moment.  Then  again  get  Maeterlinck's  "The  Life 
of  the  Bee."  There  is  a  bully  English  translation  by 
Alfred  Sutro,  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company.  It  is  really  a 
great  thing,  wonderful,  and  easily  read. 

Again,  in  regard  to  some  art  criticism  I  had  written  > 

I  think  it  is  quite  "stylish,"  with  almost  an  entire 
disappearance  of  the  jerkiness  that  troubled  me.  You 
have  also  got  away  from  the  Henry  James  manner  that 
you  seemed  to  be  inclined  to.     But  there  is  a  bit  of  it, 

389 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

that  I  have  marked,  which  is  picked  right  out  of  Henry 
James.  You  have  to  hold  your  hands  and  your  feet, 
stand  upside  down,  take  a  bath,  and  everything,  to  un- 
derstand it. 

I  do  not  think  I  should  call  it  over-brilliant.  I 
think  that  the  brilliant  writers  are  very  rare,  men  like 
Shaw  and  so  on.  .  .  .  But  you  have  succeeded  in 
getting  a  certain  charm,  a  certain  perfume,  which  is 
rare.  It  is  something  like  that  poem  "Hey-Dey"  of 
Bynner's.  It  is  a  thing  that  Schubert  has  and  that  lies 
in  Mozart's  songs,  and  I  think  that  is  more  precious 
than  anything  else.  I  would  stick  to  that  for  all  I  was 
worth,  stick  to  it  like  grim  death  to  a  dead  nigger. 

And  again,  concerning  an  idea  for  a  play: — 

If  you  deal  with  the  other  fundamental  emotions 
of  mankind  as  well  as  love  you  are  doing  wisely. 
Perhaps  with  satire.  I  feel  that  the  ambitions,  artis- 
tic, monetary,  or  any  old  thing,  the  jealousies,  generos- 
ities, are  hopelessly  mixed  up  with  one  another,  and 
are  affected  by  vanity.  Everything  is  vanity,  compli- 
cated with  affairs  of  the  heart.  The  good  that  goes 
with  the  bad  and  makes  us  accept  in  life  what  we  would 
not  otherwise  dream  of  tolerating.  And  habit,  habit 
of  every  kind,  dominates  our  lives.  Patriotism,  to  my 
thinking,  is  habit;  it 's  the  habit  of  one's  country.  Of 
course  it 's  all  right  as  it 's  our  country,  the  country 
we  have  the  habit  of;  and  that's  vanity.  Patriotism 
is  vanity.  ...  I  am  writing  while  in  pain,  and 
this  is  the  first  I  've  written  in  a  week.     I  am  in  de- 

390 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

spair  and  in  one  of  those  periods  when  I  feel  that  the 
truth  is  everything,  but  that  when  the  truth  is  told 
in  any  way  there  is  such  an  absence  of  Charity  in  every 
direction  that  often  more  harm  than  good  is  done. 

The  reminiscences  now  digress  from  work  and  sitters,  and 
when  they  return  it  is  to  quite  a  later  portion  of  the  period. 
Therefore,  before  closing  this  chapter,  I  am  anxious  to  speak 
of  two  other  important  efforts  that  should  be  included  in  the 
time  now  dwelt  upon,  the  Washington  Medal  and  the  "Diana." 
Of  the  medal  Mr.  William  A.  Coffin  has  written  me  this  most 
lucid  account: — 

"In  1899,  when  I  was  manager  of  'The  Loan  Exhibition  of 
Historical  Portraits  and  Relics'  and  a  member  of  the  committee 
on  Art  for  the  celebration  of  the  centennial  anniversary  of  the 
inauguration  of  George  Washington  as  first  president  of  the 
United  States,  we  issued  a  commemorative  medal.  Saint-Gau- 
dens  had  told  us  that,  while  he  had  not  time  to  execute  the  medal 
himself,  he  would,  without  compensation,  design  it  and  super- 
vise its  actual  modeling  by  his  pupil,  Philip  Martiny,  an  excel- 
lent young  sculptor.  The  story  of  the  making  of  that  medal 
might  fill  many  pages,  but  I  will  relate  only  a  small  part  of  it, 
because  it  illustrates  Saint-Gaudens'  tendency  to  change  and 
change  in  a  work  if  he  thought  that  bettered  it,  and  his  con- 
scientiousness in  striving  to  do  the  very  best  that  was  in  him  at 
whatever  task  he  had  to  accomplish. 

"Martiny  had  a  studio  on  Fourth  Avenue  at  the  corner  of 
one  of  the  Twentieth  Streets,  and  I  went  there  from  time  to 
time  to  see  how  the  medal  was  coming  on.  I  saw  it  in  vari- 
ous stages  and  then,  on  a  later  visit,  found  all  the  plaster 
casts  thrown  aside  and  a  new  wax  model  'in  progress'  on 
the  easel.  Martiny  explained  that  every  time  he  went  to  show 
his  work  (after  Saint-Gaudens'  design)  to  his  master,  Saint- 
Gaudens  made  such  radical  changes  that  he  had  to  begin  all 

391 


THE  REMINISCENCES  OF 

over  again.  This  went  on  for  weeks  and  months.  Finally  it 
came  to  a  time  when  Tiffany  and  Company  were  compelled 
to  have  a  model  of  the  medal  from  which  they  were  to  make 
medal  badges  in  gold,  silver,  and  bronze  for  the  members  of 
the  committees,  certain  distinguished  guests  invited  to  the 
celebration,  including  President  Harrison  and  others  connected 
with  the  great  celebration.  They  must  have  it  or  there 
would  be  no  badges,  at  least  no  Saint-Gaudens  medal  badges.  I 
took  a  cab  one  afternoon  and  went  to  Martiny's  studio.  The 
weather  happened  to  be  mild  and  a  window  on  the  side  street 
was  open.  When  I  came  in  and  looked  about  I  found  that 
nothing  remained  of  the  famous  medal  but  a  new  wax  model 
(which  I  thought  very  good),  while  Martiny,  who  had  just 
brought  the  wax  model  back  after  he  had  carried  it  to  Thirty- 
sixth  Street  to  show  to  Saint-Gaudens,  was  pacing  up  and 
down  'mad  all  through.' 

"Martiny  was  exasperated,  and  the  more  he  talked  the  more 
exasperated  he  became.  Monsieur  Saint-Gaudens  became 
Saint-Gaudens,  and  Saint-Gaudens  became  'le  sacre  patron.' 
The  medal  was  to  be  changed  again,  and  it  would  n't  be 
changed  again,  or  if  so  it  would  be  changed  yet  another  time. 
He  was  'done  out';  the  medal  would  go  'out  of  the  window.' 
That  was  a  fine  prospect  for  the  badges  and  the  medal  that 
everybody  was  going  to  be  so  proud  of. 

"My  sympathies  were  with  Martiny.  'Voyons,  mon  ami,'  said 
I.  *Will  you  smoke  a  cigar?'  and  I  closed  the  window.  'Let 
us  think  about  it  a  little.'  I  was  standing  with  my  back  close 
to  the  easel.     By  and  by  I  sat  down  and  so  did  Martiny. 

"  *You  must  leave  this  to  me  for  the  present,'  I  said  after  a 
while.  'This  evening  or  to-morrow  morning  make  a  couple  of 
casts  of  the  medal  as  it  is,  and  I  will  call  for  them  at  noon. 
From  here  I  am  going  to  see  Saint-Gaudens,  and  every- 
thing will  be  all  right.'  (Just  how  I  didn't  know, 
but  I  was  confident.)  'To-morrow  at  noon  I  will  be  here  to 
take  away  the  two  casts.' 

392 


AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

"I  went  down  stairs  and  drove  to  Thirty-sixth  Street.  After 
a  long  half  hour  with  Saint-Gaudens  I  drove  up  town  for 
home  and  dinner  but  I  was  too  worried  to  eat  and  too  wor- 
ried that  night  to  sleep.  The  next  day  I  went  to  Martiny's, 
got  the  casts,  and  took  them  to  Tiffany's.  They  made  very 
good  small  medal  badges  from  them.  Afterward  some  few 
alterations  were  made  in  the  medal,  matters  of  detail.  It 
turned  out  very  well  and  when  the  time  came  in  the  Spring 
and  the  Celebration  began,  it  was  cast  and  ready." 

My  father's  remaining  task  which  I  will  mention,  the  Diana 
for  the  Tower  of  the  Madison  Square  Garden  in  New  York, 
was  purely  a  labor  of  love.  Stanford  White  originally  sug- 
gested to  him  that  he  consent  to  give  his  work  upon  it,  pro- 
vided White  pay  the  expenses;  and  Saint-Gaudens  eagerly 
grasped  the  opportunity,  since,  as  I  have  said,  all  his  life  he 
was  anxious  to  create  ideal  figures,  with  scarcely  an  occasion 
to  gratify  his  desires,  this  indeed  being  the  only  nude  he  ever 
completed.  Unwittingly,  however,  the  two  men  drew  upon 
themselves  a  more  expensive  effort  than  they  were  prepared  to 
bear.  The  Diana  was  first  modeled  eighteen  feet  high,  ac- 
cording to  White's  estimate,  and  finished  in  hammered  sheet 
copper,  only  to  be  found  too  large  when  hoisted  into  place. 
So,  in  order  to  replace  her  with  the  present  figure,  thirteen 
feet  high,  both  sculptor  and  architect  were  forced  to  empty 
their  pocket-books,  calling  heaven  to  witness  all  the  while  that 
they  would  never  undertake  another  commission  without  begin- 
ning their  task  by  erecting  a  dummy,  a  resolve  which  they 
kept. 


393 


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